“Of course we have dreams.” His face is a ghost, though. “I’ve always wanted to visit the Alliance Space Colony.”
I stop and laugh.
“What?” he asks. “Don’t you wonder what’s up there?”
“Yeah, but I’m more worried about how to feed my family or if I’m infected with the Fever rather than planning an intergalactic vacation.”
“You’re right. I don’t know what life is like for you. How could I? It’s not my fault, though.”
“Stop. Right there. You can’t honestly believe that just because you were born into it, that you were given the luxury of health and life, that what happens to us in the Narrows is not your fault?” I pull my long gloves higher, tighter.
“What? I didn’t make the Narrows, the Ring, Central. I’m against the neocity plans. Look, more neocities wouldn’t help the rest of the population in the SA. It would only continue to develop deeper levels of exclusion. I’ve never agreed with it.”
“Disagreeing with something and fighting against it are two different things. It’s easy to disagree, safe, low risk. To stand against those who are sending families and children to their deaths outside the neocities? It’s sick that we are in a world where this shows courage. It should be the very level on which humans are judged.”
He’s about to speak, but the words hang on his bottom lip before slipping off into nothingness. Yeah, that’s what I thought.
The air around us grows thick, like my lungs can’t process the pollution. And the tunic collar cinches tighter around my throat. I’m sure to lose my temper, so I do what Zami taught me to do, and I take a deep breath and count. If this is going to work, I have to stay even.
“Come on,” I say. “There’s going to be a line to reenter Central since it’s AllianceCon.”
AllianceCon will give us some cover. Central will be livelier than usual. The big crowds will be easy to hide in, but will also bring an increased presence of guardians. We join the line under a massive holo-screen projecting playbacks of the end of WWIII, the same clips I’ve grown up seeing, but this time they look different to me.
I mouth the taglines they spew about the world in which we were born: “Born on the back of annihilation. Like the first dawn after an endless night.” Twenty-five years after the floods and nuclear winter, after the reorganization of the world, we should thank the PAC for their charity in how they brought the world together. The PAC loves using the phrase “impossible decisions” to allow Provinces the leeway to choose how they will manage their populace.
I pause and take in the playback on the holo-screen, and watch the North American war mecha battle the Asian mecha. I listen to the sounds of metal crunching as the two colossal robots collide mid-air over the Atlantic Ocean in their final skirmish, before their nuclear missiles were launched. The clip ends with the PAC’s logo, fists destroying war mechas.
Even though I hadn’t been born yet, I feel like I was there, as I watch the great mushroom clouds rise above the disintegrated cities on the east coast of the North American Province, Central Asia, and the Middle East. I can hear the screams in my mind, as the bright flash of light consumes the sky, and the fires inside the explosion radius burn people where they stand, leaving statues of ash. Then the shockwave of the blast ripples out beyond ground zero, collapsing buildings and throwing people off their feet. The worst came later, with the fallout debris creating airborne radioactive isotopes polluting the air, spreading radiation sickness miles away. But then the smoke from the three explosions blocked the sun and the world’s food crops froze. Millions more people died around the world from fallout on the PACs’ watch than from the bombs themselves. None of this is in the PAC’s playback. They’re the heroes who came in and gave order to our dying world.
I jump when people around us cheer at the sight of President Liu at the end of the playback, standing with the world leaders. Are they pleased at the destruction or the millions dead, or the new world order? Or are they just bloodthirsty, rich people, drunk on their wealth, so far distanced from the suffering that still continues in the world? It takes every inch of my patience to still the fire inside me. I’d love to strap on a bomb to the wall and just let it fly. I wince. No, no I wouldn’t. No more bloodshed. Even here. Even with these soulless people.
People cheer at each other, saying things like “Happy Alliance Day!” and “Welcome to AllianceCon!” Beautiful people are dancing in the streets and music is pouring out of UAV speakers.
The line is long; people from the outer districts of the SA and the world are allowed inside, just on this special day. AllianceCon is a planetary event, but this is the first time the SA has hosted the event. The SA made a plea to present Solace and host the conference because they need to convince the PAC to increase the SA’s funding. But most visitors are wealthy people from other regions, the European Province, the Asian Province, Americas, and even those who live on massive city barges floating on the seas. All are curious about Central. This is the first neocity, the first Ring in the world, the first algorithm like Solace. It could be the first of many.
How can they celebrate when tragedy just took place? The Info-Runs never announced what happened in the Narrows. We need to connect to the all-comms somehow, to get our message out. How can so many people come together with such a celebration while so many innocent people have been lost in the Narrows?
When we come up to the guardian’s booth, I look up. Central’s sub-strata is a stunning feat of engineering. The glass sparkles like a million diamonds and rises like a tsunami: up, up and up. Spectacular. I’ve been inside the lower Stratas, but today, I’ll get my first look at how the wealthiest live.
I should’ve packed an explosive.
It’s like he hears my thoughts because Riz says, “It’s pretty, isn’t it? It’s so fragile.”
I nod, and stuff my anarchy below my edited façade.
“Books,” the guardian says and holds out her hand.
I roll down the glove on my left hand to expose my wrist reader. She scans us and it feels like eternity. But I don’t sweat. I don’t even breathe. I just smile wide and pout like the other wealthy girls in line beside us. One girl looks bored. Put out. Fancy. I emulate her the best I can.
“Go ahead.” The guardian waves us through to the Z Fever testing. A few uppers from other Provinces are throwing fits at being detained. One didn’t pass the tests and they put her inside a cube-shaped room with clear plastic walls, barred from entry and contained. She’s beautiful, with long, blonde hair. Like a film star or something. But I see it. She doesn’t look well. But her companion is angry. So angry, they contain him too.
We are in.
The decompression chamber cleans us of all bugs—electronic and insects. The air is extracted from the chamber, then comes rushing back in with a fresh scent. The scent Riz has on his body. It’s just clean. We exit the chamber and enter Strata One’s chaos.
The press of bodies is intense, and Riz reaches for my human hand. I glare at him, but when I nod and he slides his hand into mine, I feel it. Our connection. It’s unexpected and comfortable. Our hands fit together perfectly. He smiles at me, a boyish grin, and I smile back. A sensation like falling takes me and for one second, I wish we were on a rooftop alone, not here, running a mission. For a blip, amidst all this horror, I adore this temporary lie we find ourselves in. But then I’m back, desperate to find my sister.
“We need to get a transport to Strata 95. Okay?”
We scan the surroundings for a transport dock. But their lines are packed, so he takes me inside a glass elevator that rises above the din, up, up and up to Strata 20. My stomach goes into my throat. It feels like floating. When I realize I am holding on tight to his hand—and judging by the grimace on his face, probably hurting him—I let go.
“Heights aren’t my thing.”
“And here I thought you were all perfect, invulnerable, smart, and beautiful.” He smiles sweetly.
“No one’s ever said that
.”
“What? That you’re perfect?”
“Yeah.”
He laughs. He’s a peculiar boy. Maybe not all Uplander rich boys are soulless, wastes of space after all.
I back up, but the vertigo rushes back and I stagger. He puts out his arm to steady me and his hand accidentally touches my waist.
“Apologies, I didn’t mean to . . .” he says.
“It’s okay. Let’s just get there,” I say, trying to steady myself.
“We have to stop by my flat first.”
“Why?” I ask.
“I want to change my clothes, eat something. It’ll be quick.”
He’s lying. I know it. “Okay, but then—”
He stops me with a raised hand that points to his eyes and ears. “Then we visit my office for the tour.” His smile is terrified.
“Got it.”
Then I know. The surveillance is real, even if he is offline. We are risking our lives just being here.
28 //
Riz-Ali
Central spreads out before us like a pulsing organism. The crush of moving bodies below for AllianceCon are reaching a critical mass. I count the floors as we rise up to the penthouse and suddenly I realize what we are doing. Going home. Anyone can be inside. Sidharth. Taz. Mother. Guardians. Father? Anyone.
“I’ll be quick.” I place my hand on the door lock and it pulses with heat, reading every line on my hand.
The light flashes blue. I try again.
Green. It opens.
“You live alone?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Not usually. But it looks empty now. My flatmate is probably at the festival.”
Through the wall of windows, the city below glows with colorful lanterns and lights.
“Nice place,” she says.
“Yeah, isn’t it?”
“Funny. To have so much and just—” She shrugs her shoulders with emphasis.
“It’s just where I sleep. Anyway. It’s not my home.” She follows me into the kitchen. “Hungry? Help yourself to whatever you’d like.”
She’s as still as metal staring at the central console.
“Do you need . . . ?”
“I don’t need help.”
“I wasn’t suggesting . . .”
“I don’t. I’ve just never seen . . .” she says, her hands pausing above the console, unsure.
I fight the urge to make a joke because it would be a huge blow to her pride, and I know what it must take for her to even acknowledge she needs help. So I open the console and program the first meal that comes to mind. In thirty seconds, the panel opens and there are ten small, white dishes domed with tiny, perfect, glass lids, containing a meal for two.
She squeals. I didn’t know her voice could go that high. “That’s insane!” she cries.
“Yes, it is.” I’m embarrassed. She’s shared her food with me, every scrap and sip. Now, knowing what I’ve been accustomed to, it all feels so pathetic under her gaze. Even though the meal I made is simple—daal, roti, curry, fruit—it’s something I take for granted. But she’s stunned.
“My mum had this put in. She thought I was looking thin. You want to meet a real master of surveillance, you should meet her.”
“We could use her help. What’s she do?”
“Never mind, she’s in politics. Anyway, sit, eat. I’ll just get some things and we can get on with it.”
“Um . . . what is this?” She picks up a piece of fruit in her fingers and inspects it like it’s the crown jewels, putting it close to her eyes and then up against the bright light, highlighting the star-shaped black pits inside the drab, peach-colored flesh.
“Oh, that? It’s a chikoo. Delicious. Like somewhere between a pear and brown sugar. Try it.”
Her eyes widen, and I realize she’s probably never had a pear or brown sugar. “I’m sorry, I . . .”
She changes the subject quickly. “Are you sure they don’t put strange things in your food?” She takes a bite, then slips a couple of chikoos into her pocket.
“What? No.” I say, but then I think, why wouldn’t they?
“I mean, it looks too perfect. Everything does.”
“And that scares you? Look, eat now and forget it. What we’re about to do is dangerous and it might be our last meal for a while, mind-controlling vitamins and all.”
She looks at the plates, like she’s deciding what to eat first. She waits until I leave before opening the glass lids on the plates. I hear the glass connect with the marble table. I think she’ll eat more if I leave her alone. That my eyes will only make her self-conscious.
But when I enter my room, I get a shock. My room is packed up for storage. Sealed shipping containers line the walls. My bed is stripped. There’s nothing left.
I pull the panel out of my wall and it’s there. My box. The tiny synth paper tubes. Uncle’s agribot plans. I stuff them into my pockets. Thank the gods. I search my drawer for my auto-inject, but it’s gone. Cruel. Desperate, I search for my system. Nothing. All of it. Memory, monitors, everything gone. Nothing’s left. The containers have my clothes, uniforms, a few odds and ends, but nothing important.
It’s all gone. I was wiped. They can have everything . . . At least I got the plans.
Then I see him.
“Taz,” I say. He’s offline, but his head is open and his tablet is ripped out of his chest. Obviously not a job by a techie. They would have taken more care. Even though he was trouble, he was my companion, in a weird way. I put him back together the best I can and wipe my eyes.
“What’s with the empty room?” Ashiva asks through a mouthful of food.
“We have to go now,” I say. “Sorry, it’s not safe. We shouldn’t have come.”
“What happened in here? Did you just move in?”
“No, I was erased.”
“Oh.” Her eyes flash around the room and before she can say anything, I take her by the hand and pick up a few things, just before I hear the footsteps in the hallway outside my front door. Two sets of feet. Two people searching for me.
“We have to hide,” I whisper and push her into a small storage closet in the living room. It’s a tight fit, but we close it. It’s hard to see from the outside; the panel slips seamlessly against the wall.
The front door slides open with a hush. Small, tinny sounds of a high-heeled person ring through the marble flat. Thick, heavy lugs of boots slink after.
A woman’s voice says, “Check the bedroom.”
Oh my god. I know that voice. So familiar. Mother’s assistant, Geena?
A man’s voice responds, “Looks like someone was here recently.”
“We need to make this fast,” Geena says.
I can’t see her, but Ashiva’s shallow breaths tell me volumes. She’s getting ready.
“Madam? You should see this,” the man’s voice says, and I hear her light footsteps echo across the living room as they walk past our closet into my bedroom.
It’s quiet.
Ashiva’s voice is deep, “We have to go. Now.”
I hesitate, but she slides the cabinet door open, pulls me out the front door, down the hall and into an elevator.
I press my hand to the sensor and say, “Down.”
Only when the elevator moves do I breathe.
“Who were they?” she demands.
“The woman works for my mother.”
“So, someone’s looking for you now. This changes things.”
“She probably just wants to send me to Ahimsa.”
“That fancy health club?
“It’s worse than that.”
“Whatever. I bet they’ve sent an alert with your info all over Central.”
“We don’t know that yet. They’ll want to keep this quiet. I’m not . . . I’m not a model son.”
“I guess we’ll have to be better than them. We have to put Saachi’s device to the ultimate test. If you’re truly are offline, we have a chance.”
When the doors open, we run out of th
e building and hide amongst the chaos of AllianceCon.
It feels good to be alive.
29 //
Ashiva
To be honest, I always wanted to see AllianceCon. Just not like this, not without Taru and Zami and Masiji. Not when hundreds of my people are locked up. Not at the expense of our freedom. There’s no space in my head for the celebration around me. Any other day and I would be charged to be here. But I do my best to go with it. For their sakes.
But it’s beautiful. The energy. The life. I’ve never seen so much money in one place. Bigger than my imagination, and louder too. The high-pitched laughter: That’s what gets me first. They are all carefree, happy, chosen members of their societies around the planet, bestowed with the ability to survive and, of course, thrive.
I’m taking in the signs, banners, decorations. Sheer gold, red and purple silks hang from thirty stories above us, with little bells chiming in the breeze. Air scented with rose and sandalwood, and flowers I can’t place. People from places I’ve only read about pass by: from the American Province with their funny accents; European Province, with their genetically edited, ridiculous facial features that make them look frozen in time. The SA elite with their tunics, saris, perfect skin and postures that make them seem almost made of plastic. Everyone is here who is anyone. Anyone who belongs to the future of the world, that is.
The rest of us will be left behind.
Central is anxious to show off their Ring and Solace Corp’s reorganization. It’s the first of its kind on the planet. And what better time than AllianceCon to display the newest tech, art, and ideas? They need this to work. They need this to be perfect. They need to empty the Narrows to show how at peace we are, clean up what embarrassing oversights they made, and show how the Downlanders will accept their fate and move on, or just stay quiet about it. They need to show that the difficult decisions the SA have made are for the greater good. That’s why they cleared the Narrows. If this isn’t perfect, the SA will not get the financial support to complete their construction on the remaining neocities, and the PAC will distribute their money to other, more deserving Provinces.
Rise of the Red Hand Page 20
