Honor Among Thieves

by Ann Aguirre

  Then he’d sent a drone to make a public statement.

  With a shuddering breath, I grabbed Derry and dragged him into the shadows under an overhang. Everybody was off the streets because they’d seen what happened. Somewhere up there, in the low-hanging clouds, the drone might be circling, looking for another target.

  Looking for us.

  I dug the dead man’s device out of my pocket and threw it hard. My aching shoulder twinged, but the thing flipped end over end, catching the brief glitter of sunlight, and plunged into the inferno that had been Conde’s shop.

  Before today, I’d never seen Derry shaken; hungover, high, coming down, strung out, all that, but scared? No. He’d always been cocky and assured, a smooth criminal, confident he could go anywhere and do anything. But looking at this, he knew better. So did I. The problem was, he’d stay. We’d met in my first forced rehab, separated when I got released ahead of him, but when they let him go, he found my house and persuaded me away. Then they sent me to reconditioning, and he came for me again. And again, until finally the last time I’d left, my family had too. For Mars.

  The past few years, Derry—flying or falling, chemmed or sober—had been my one constant. He wouldn’t leave me now. Not unless I made him.

  I had to make him.

  “Derry,” I said. His eyes were dark and bleak, and I took his hands in mine to get his full attention. “D. Time to split up.”

  “No.” He said it quietly, but he meant it.

  “Listen. You can’t stay with me. Not this time. Maybe this will cool off, but it won’t do it soon.” I squeezed his hands hard, contrasting the chilly pallor of his to the warm brown of mine.

  He pulled me close, wrapping his arms around me. We both reeked, but I didn’t care. There was only his trembling body, the fast rhythm of his breathing. He was on the verge of breaking.

  “He’s not after you,” I said.

  “I helped you kill his goon, Z!”

  “He doesn’t know that. All he knows is he sent a guy for me, and the guy died. Derry. It’s on me. I’ll handle it.”

  He shook his head. His hair brushed my face, soft as feathers, and I pulled in a deep breath. I had concrete in my soul, but he had a way of breaking it. “You can’t just leave me on my own, Z. It’s Deluca. I need something to cool me out. Get me something?” There was a pleading note in his voice. A bite of desperation under it.

  “I can’t,” I said, which was a lie; I had a sweet little bag of chem burning a hole in my pocket. “They’ll have people on the streets, and it’s my face they’re scanning for.”

  He pushed me away and paced. I knew the harsh, fast way he moved, the jerky steps, the tic in his cheek. Sometimes, the chem’s burndown left him angry. Now, he was pissed and scared. Bad combination. “I need something. Right now. You did this. You did.” It was rare his anger turned on me, but it had happened before. I’d learned to back off when I saw the flash of it.

  “I’m going back,” I said. “To Parkview. They’ll send me to lockup this time. And lockup is way safer.”

  I was right, and he knew it. Derry was a street kid; he’d grown up fighting. But this death, it was an important one, life-changing. And he must’ve parsed that before me, back in the alley. Layering that on top of his natural coming-down paranoia . . . It was bad.

  Bad enough that I worried he’d make a mistake. Do something we’d both regret.

  “I’ll get you out of there,” he said. “Don’t I always, Z?” He hadn’t let me go yet, but he would. He had to.

  “Not this time,” I told him softly. “Don’t look for me. Just look after yourself.”

  “I will,” he said. When I turned to go, he moved. He grabbed my arm and spun me hard toward him, and kissed me. That melted me, but then he whispered, “You have to find something to get me through. I can’t—without . . . Get it for me. Please.”

  For months, I’d tried to keep him off the chems; it had worked, sometimes. But never when he was like this.

  I silently reached into my pocket and pulled out the chem I’d taken from Deluca’s daughter and pressed it into his hand. “Careful,” I whispered. “I don’t know how strong it is. Hell, I don’t know what it is. Just a taste, okay? Only when you need it.”

  He took in a gasping breath and pressed his forehead to mine, then kissed me again. Sweet, this time, but it still left a bitter taste in my mouth.

  I might never see him again. It hurt like pulling bones out of sockets. Hearts out of chests. But neither one of us were the type to say that or let it show. He lifted his head at a whisper-whir in the clouds; the drone would be one of the quiet models, stealthy. A murder drone. And it was scanning for us. No. For me.

  He didn’t let me go. I opened my hands and stepped back.

  Leaning in, I kissed him fiercely, and ran.

  Heart burning like Conde’s building, I kept to the rat’s maze—covered walkways, tunnels, camouflaged nets that flapped overhead. The Zone residents were always wary of drones, though mostly they were trying to protect themselves from enforcement models, not murderbots. I had military-grade heat on me, so I moved fast.

  Parkview Rehabilitation Home was technically in the Paradise part of New Detroit, but barely. It was on the outskirts, within sight of the thick fences of the Zone. You could tell the difference at a glance, a sharp divide between the haves and have-nots. Money and suffocating conformity versus cheap, dirty freedom. The world was largely sparkling these days, orderly and gentrified, but most cities had an underbelly, full of those who wouldn’t—or couldn’t—follow the rules.

  Even Parkview, scruffy by Paradise standards, had a cleanly manicured look, with soft grass and trimmed bushes and new paint on the old bones of the house. Sunny yellow and deep black accents on the window and door frames. It looked like luxury to someone like me who dossed in damp ruins and ate sticky, day-old ration rice from street cookers.

  Luxury was a trap.

  I checked the sky. No sign of the drone; it was probably circling the area near Conde’s shop, and I’d left that a mile back. I was probably okay. I hoped Derry was. He is, I told myself. Derry’s a survivor. He knows how to dodge.

  Somebody had repaired the braided-wire fence where I’d cut my way out last time, and judging by the warning sign, the voltage was working again. Closer to the heart of Paradise, there was tighter security and human sentries. Here on the ragged border, we had drones, robo-patrols, and lightning gates.

  At first I just hid beneath a sprawling old tree and counted, timing the sweep of the robo-patrol from inside the perimeter. Four minutes, okay. I could work with that.

  When the first raindrop hit me, I swore. The deluge splashed the leaves overhead and trickled down to hit cold on my head. I pulled my gray hood up to conceal my face, tucked in my dark curls, and hoped the drone didn’t have DNA sniffing; some did, especially the newer military models.

  When the next four-minute interval started, I left the tree and slid into the beating curtain of rain. The air smelled sharp with it, spiced with the earthy tang of mud, and I moved faster as the downpour started to soak through my hood. Parkview’s lights had switched on, and the house glowed warm gold in the gloom.

  But I was still on the wrong side of the lightning gate.

  Keeping low, I circled the property until I found the drainage ditch. Dirty water poured from the narrow pipe. It wasn’t big enough for me to crawl through, but the earth was soft and sunken. I buried all ten fingers in the soil, hauling it away in muddy scoops. Between the dark and the driving rain, it felt like I was digging my own grave. If I didn’t get inside—to the relative safety of the system—I might have to do just that.

  Every four minutes, I flattened and froze. The robo-patrol wasn’t programmed for nuances, and I needed to be sent to the right facility when I was caught. I trusted Mrs. Witham enough to arrange that.

  No telling how long I burrowed, but eventually I had enough room to crawl under. Probably. If I’d miscalculated, I’d fry. Best to c
ount it down.

  As soon as the bot passed, I squirmed forward, pulling myself with palms and elbows. There was a spark as I drew my feet out, and I dropped, avoiding the patrol for the last time. When the light passed, I got up and sprinted for the house.

  I vaulted the steps onto the porch. It was mostly dry, though there was a leak near the corner that drizzled a silvery stream; it snaked across the concrete and under the welcome mat at the door. It was all sickeningly familiar. I hadn’t spent a lot of time at Parkview, but the smell of the place, the feel of it, was like every other rehab stop.

  No, not quite the same. I caught another scent as I raised my hand toward the bell. Vanilla, butter, something light and warm and sweet.

  They were making cookies.

  The smell sparked memories in an uncontrollable rush. I saw my mother’s face. I hadn’t wanted to think about what this was going to do to her, but there it was. In her last message, she’d looked so tired, and though she’d never admit it, I was the one who’d put those years on her face. She’d fought so hard for me—at university hospitals and research clinics, in and out of rehab. They fined her every time I ran away, and she still hadn’t let go. I was the oldest. I should have been helping her, not constantly adding to her burden.

  I closed my eyes for a second, and there it was, the memory of me shattering my family forever. Mom had held my hand, anxious, staring at a document that already had my father’s signature on it. Shaking her head. “I don’t want to do this. Kiz and I, we’re making a fresh start on Mars. There’s a place for you, baby. Come with us. Away from here. Away from him!”

  She meant my father, or Derry, or both, and it did sound tempting. New Detroit offered a lottery to all citizens, and the ones picked to join the Mars colony were guaranteed food, housing, job training if they needed it. They’d won the shot. But if I felt confined on Earth, imagine how it would be, living forever inside a snow globe. No amount of security would let me breathe right in that life.

  I didn’t tell her about my fears. I just said, “Sign the form.”

  She’d wept as she wrote her name, dressed in her Sunday best and a fine hat with silk flowers and delicate lace. She’d given me the freedom I wanted, and walked away, because I hadn’t given her any choice. I’d watched until I couldn’t even see her shadow anymore. Most of my good memories had gone with her. Before the pain, before my family fractured under me, there was Mom and singing and butter cookies and—

  Shivering, I shoved away that old weight. I already felt trapped, and I hadn’t even stepped inside. I rang the bell and yanked back my hood as the locks clicked and alarms beeped. Then Mrs. Witham opened the door and looked me over with a cool gaze shaded by cat’s-eye reading glasses. She didn’t need them, really. She just liked how they looked. Like the apron she wore over her clothes, and the way she put her graying hair up in a bun. She thought those touches made her seem grandmotherly.

  “Zara,” she said without a smile. “It’s an ocean out there. Come in.”

  No where have you been or threats or punishments. Not yet. I stepped in, and it felt like a cage door slamming. I felt short of breath and shaking, and it wasn’t just from the cold and wet that had soaked into my hoodie. Mrs. Witham shut the door and turned toward me. With the dim light, it was hard to read her expression, but I didn’t imagine it would be friendly.

  At least she’s not working for Deluca. That was why I’d chosen to be processed by someone who played by the rules. Mrs. Witham might push my buttons with her adherence to rehab policies, but hopefully, that meant she wouldn’t sell me out, either. At the police station there would be more tech, more chances for Deluca to spot me and have me hauled off to his private compound under the aegis of a bogus transfer order.

  I could hear other kids—younger kids, kids who deserved a break—talking and laughing as they made cookies. Parkview had a nice kitchen. Warm. Dry. The food wasn’t bad, even if it was cheap and processed. Not like I hadn’t eaten worse. Or not at all.

  I said, “Look, you need to send me to Camp Kuna.”

  That surprised her, and she stepped forward into the glow of the cheap hall light. It revealed widened eyes behind the cat’s-eye glasses, but nothing else changed in her expression. Not even a frown marred her smooth, dark skin.

  “We can talk about this, Zara.”

  “I’m trying to keep you safe. Somebody’s after me. Somebody bad. They’ll find me soon and—” And I can’t have this place ending up like Conde’s. I can’t carry that too. “Safer if you get me to rehab. For me and the other kids too.”

  The reminder that her other charges were in danger got Mrs. Witham focused. She studied my face for a few seconds, then reached in the pocket of her shirt and pulled out her H2. Punched the emergency alert and put it on the table.

  She didn’t even hesitate, and I wasn’t sure if I felt good about that or not. Didn’t really matter. It was what I’d needed her to do.

  “Better smash something,” she said. “They’ll need evidence of violence to take you.”

  I looked around. She had plenty of nice things here, probably old. I picked up a big vase and looked at her. She said nothing, but I saw a muscle twitch on the side of her face. I put it back and picked up something else, a fragile china plate with flowers etched on it, and saw the minuscule nod.

  Then I smashed it into bits against the table it had been sitting on. Sharp fragments skittered all over the floor.

  “That enough?” I asked.

  She nodded and sat down. From the other rooms, voices had gone to quiet whispers, and I saw a face looking around the corner. Couldn’t remember her name. She’d only been there a couple of days when I left, and I never really cared about their names anyway.

  “You okay?” the girl asked Mrs. Witham.

  “Keep everybody calm,” the woman replied. “Everything’s fine. Zara will be leaving soon.”

  “Thought she already skipped.” The girl had a Lower Eight accent, I realized. Maybe she was a charity case. Or maybe her family had clawed their way up to Paradise before being thrown back on the dumping ground, and she’d hung around.

  “Never mind, just do what I told you.”

  The girl disappeared, and the door into the other rooms shut, locking us in together.

  We waited in silence two minutes or so, until sirens flared and enforcement bots scanned the situation. Then human agents from Camp Kuna arrived to take me into custody.

  “Zara,” Mrs. Witham murmured as they fastened my restraints. “Take care of yourself.”

  It was the nicest thing anybody who wasn’t Derry had said to me in a while.

  BREAKING NEWS REPORT:

  Dateline New Detroit

  August 21, 2142

  Honors Countdown week continues on our twenty-four-hour coverage, with hour-long special features on each of 2141’s Honors as we welcome them back home for their triumphant return. Each of these heroes will complete their assigned duties with the Selection Committee upon landing, which we’re told include rigorous debriefing, medical and mental health checkups, and of course, their assignments to welcome this year’s new Honors. We can’t wait for the dramatic reveals!

  Today we’ve already noted the scheduled arrivals of twelve of last year’s Honors, including fan-fave Marko Dunajski and his flight partner, Zhang Chao-Xing. They’ll be restricted from interviews until after the new Honors are delivered back to the New York training facility, but we’re burning to ask: Are they going on the Journey?

  Stay tuned to our nonstop coverage to discover the answers, and don’t forget to take our neural test. . . . Are you suited to be an Honor?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Breaking Free

  PROCESSING WAS DONE in a ten-by-ten room with white-block walls and aluminum benches. Two prisoners sprawled there already, one on a bench and the other on the floor. I perched on the edge of one of the benches, ready to move as soon as I was called. This was Camp Kuna, designed for problems, for people in need of socializati
on and reconditioning. People who’d failed the system. I’d never been here, but I knew the type well.

  It was safe. Safe, clean, secure, and boring. Exactly what I needed right now.

  I watched my cellies closely for any sign that Deluca had infiltrated the place ahead of me, but they were dead to the world, and eventually tedium took over. My spine sagged. I relaxed and finally paid attention to the screen on the wall outside the bars. Honors Countdown frenzy was still in full swing, and now they were showing an agonizingly in-depth retrospective of each of the hundred people chosen last year. They were only in hour twelve.

  Worst part of the year, Honors season. In Paradise, nobody watched, talked, or dreamed about anything else. At least back on the other side of the fence I could have avoided most of it. Here? The only escape came through sleep.

  This particular hour was about one of the seventeen Honors picked out of China last year—Zhang Chao-Xing, a severe-looking woman who had a degree in something complicated. The show took us to her home, which had all the comforts, including a proud, smiling family. Just like me, minus the proud part.

  Just like me, except I was sitting my ass on a cold aluminum bench, waiting to be given a boring uniform and boring job and boring classes. Again. Though the thought didn’t escape me that maybe I did deserve it. You stole the purse. You killed a guy.

  I didn’t even feel that guilty, really. It wasn’t like I took anything from people who had less than me.

  In hour fourteen of the retrospective, someone finally came, but she wasn’t there for me. The woman in uniform nudged the pasty guy on the floor in the ribs to wake him up.

  “Let’s go. Your room is ready.”

  The boy got to his feet without protest. He probably weighed fifty kilos max. His dead gaze met mine, and I shivered, wishing that look came from some kind of chemical numb. But I’d seen the expression before, hopelessness creeping in like mice behind the walls. He’d get treatment here from painfully sincere staffers; maybe he’d even get well. That was the goal, anyway.