Daugher of Ash

by Matthew S. Cox

  She ducked, glancing up at rows of narrow tubes beneath a smashed water tank and a complicated tangle of broken ductwork. No way I’m climbing back out of here. She edged forward, careful to test her footing before putting any weight down. When she reached the hatch, she leaned up to peer out a small four-inch strip of grimy glass.

  The basement of a former commercial property appeared dark and empty. A pair of toothed metal bars extended from a geared hub at the center of the hatch, keeping it secure. She grabbed on, ignoring the oily, flaking dirt squeezing between her fingers. Tugging at it failed to move it. Both hands pulling on one side did not fare better, nor did bracing a foot against the wall accomplish more than burning off a spider web.

  Kate pounded on the hatch, drawing a breath to scream, but stopped. The men trying to kill her might still be out there somewhere. The rat grill provided a less painful seat than the old boiler pipes, though it remained far from comfortable. A few half-hearted kicks at the hatch made her feel more confined. She huddled in the dark, grateful at least for not feeling cold.

  “This was her damn idea; the freaky bitch better get her ass over here to let me out.”

  Her head sagged forward, hair draped over her shins, and she traced her fingers over the tops of her feet. The stink of the boiler no longer registered, only anger at captivity and the vulnerability that came with it.

  Kate sat in silence, shifting every few minutes to keep the grill marks from becoming permanent on her rear end. Eventually, Aurora would show up or perhaps whoever used this place as a cooking fire… assuming they still lived.

  She sighed, running her fingers through her hair in rhythmic strokes. The urge to destroy something grew close to uncontainable, manifesting as a blanket of fire around her body. Kate glared at the immobile bar mechanism holding the hatch closed, hating it and whoever built it. Wavering blue firelight illuminated a tangle of crud-encrusted gears, none of which looked as though she’d be able to move them with her bare hands. She despised the scientists who cursed her with life, as well as the city and everyone in it. Rat bones beneath her smoldered and smoked. She hated the lack of anything in easy reach she could make scream in agony.

  A shift of weight startled her out of her building anger; the grid upon which she sat softened enough to sag. Eyes closed, she clenched her fists and attempted to calm down. Wrathful woman traded places on and off with fearful child as she drifted from being livid at getting trapped and terrified she’d never get out.

  With no sense of time to guide her, her rusting prison became intolerable after what felt like hours. She abandoned worry of mercenaries, and yelled, “Hello?”

  The sound of her voice echoed over and over itself into quiet infinity. She sighed, head bowed. Angry, she slammed her palm into the door, and winced.

  A clank of metal, like a pipe or rod falling over outside, made her lean up to the door and peer out the tiny window. A wavering flashlight beam emanated from the right, held by someone out of view, sending long shadows stretching over rusting metal walls smeared with streaks of dark liquid. Her breaths came shallow; anticipation and fear knotted in her stomach. It had seemed like an eternity she’d sat there in the old boiler. She doubted the mercs would still be out there looking for her after so long.

  She contemplated fixing her embarrassment by killing whoever opened the door. Guilt added to her nerves, causing an anxious shiver. Maybe he’ll try something and give me an excuse. She brushed the dead bracelet, mourning the loss of her only possession.

  It chirped.

  The sound made her jump enough to scrape and bang inside the enclosure. Hasty swipes cleared the screen, revealing a dense layer of oily soot covering it―enough to block the sensor that reacted to her gestures. Something moved in the window, followed by two metal-on-metal taps.

  “Somethin’ in there?” asked a male voice.

  Crap!

  “Casual One,” she whispered to her wrist.

  Holographic clothing shimmered into existence around her: dark sweatshirt, loose pants, and black athletic shoes. The eerie glow from the faux garments lit the eyeball of a pallid man peering through the tiny window. His grey-blue iris thickened as the pupil shrank.

  “By the maker…” he gasped, backing away.

  “Help!” she yelled. “Open the door. I’m stuck in here.”

  He remained silent.

  “I’m not a ghost, moron. It’s a hologram.”

  She shifted her weight onto her feet, poised by the door, gaze locked on the gear nub.

  “Please?” She knocked on the hatch. “Open it.” I promise I won’t hurt you.

  The eye returned, widening. “I know you! You’re the Firefly.”

  “No one’s called me that since I was a kid. Come on, open the door. I fell in from the vents and can’t get out.”

  An ear-splitting screech rattled the boiler as the gear moved. The rag-clad man dragged the hatch open, allowing a blast of cleaner air in. Kate lunged, sliding out the narrow opening and walking on her hands until she could get her legs free. After a brief crawl, she stood, rubbing the discomfort out of her butt, and limped around in a circle.

  The man peered at her from behind the half-inch slab of metal, dirt-stained knuckles whitening. Pale as a corpse, and almost as thin, he flashed a nervous attempt at a smile before he looked away.

  “Thanks.” She glanced around at the basement. “What’s the fastest way outside?”

  He pointed at a small concrete stairway leading to a door.

  I wonder if she knew he’d show up. Kate argued with herself on the way out, trying to make up her mind if she should be angry or grateful.

  Several blocks and quite a few ignited dumpsters later, she still had not gotten the essence of soot out of her mouth. Her illusory garments hid most of the dirt, but knowing a thick layer of boiler grime covered her bothered her as much as looking like it. The smell of rust clung to her fingers, making the idea of touching food unwelcome.

  Fires erupted in trash at random as she stomped down the alley, wherever a piece of flammable material caught a whiff of her anger. She did not care enough to put them out, figuring a metal city built on metal plates wouldn’t mind a little burning. Why did I ever come to the city? I should’ve stayed out in the wilds. She snarled at a trashcan, which exploded skyward at the head of a trail of flames, with a deep concussive boom that echoed into the distance. I’m no less lonely here. Having no one around was better. She picked at her fingernails. Well, at least I don’t have to kill deer.

  Kate closed her eyes, thinking back to the feeling of Aurora controlling her arm. The sensation almost fit how she imagined being touched would feel, even if it had been her hand under someone else’s control. Archon had offered her the one thing she wanted more than anything, and she had no way to get to him. West City… on the other side of the continent.

  Another pile of debris roared into a bonfire.

  I can’t take a damn shuttle to the west coast; I’ll light the seats on fire. She scowled, daydreaming about shipping herself as cargo in a metal box. No, they’ll find me on the scanners. The alley ended at a cross street with a sparse crowd. Three blocks down, the flashing sign for Tanked lit up the night. I can’t walk across the damn country. Several people leapt away from her as she stormed into the bar. They cried out from the heat and glared, confused and angry. Any pretense of caring for others had gone out the window; her usual habit of giving idiots space was an extra effort she disregarded.

  Greg looked up from the bar as she slipped into the hall leading to the gel tank rooms. Repetitive thuds from an occupied suite darkened her mood further with a reminder of an activity she could not know. Curtains smoldered from her barely-contained anger as she rounded the end of the corridor and entered her room.

  The bracelet landed on the bench and she plunged into the gel, keeping her head above the surface as she scrubbed herself. Nanobots in the fluid avoided direct contact due to her temperature; however, wisps of black grime disappeared when
they got far enough away. Kate dunked her head, holding her breath and closing her eyes. The microscopic robots got to work in seconds, clearing her hair of dirt.

  In the muted void of sound and darkness, the voices of arguing scientists echoed. They could not understand why the little girl was too hot to touch, yet her hair remained cool and unburned. The old man, the only one of them she still thought of as human, tried to use it as justification for continuing. He surmised her brain had subconscious control over the heat, and if they could figure out the mechanism behind it, they could ‘turn her off.’

  Kate lifted her head out of the gel and gasped for air. Images of soldiers dragging Dr. Solomon away while she floated helpless in the tank reddened her eyes. Kate didn’t often cry; crying was a plea to the world for comfort, and no one would comfort her. She slid out of the tank and sat on the edge, as clean as someone who couldn’t use an autoshower or touch water could get. Whiteness spread across the coating of peach colored slime until it flaked off as dust.

  Kate stewed about the scientists, her life, and Archon’s improbable offer. Anger built on itself. She glanced across the room at the bracelet, the sight of her ‘key to the normal world’ muted rage to quiet resignation. Grumbling, she fell into the goop, in dire need of sleep.

  Dull green carpet ignited with each step, burning down to a blackened footprint seconds later. Pale yellow lights faltered overhead, as if the building feared her approach. Kate locked on to two men in Wharf Rat jackets loitering by a door, taking pulls on Flowerbasket inhalers and discussing the pros and cons of Siege Corporation’s firearms compared to high-end Deutsche Technik Firma guns. Their debate paused as they sniffed smoke, and both glanced at her.

  “I need to see Robbie.”

  The closer man held up his hand. “No can do right now. He’s busy.”

  Kate let her head sag forward. “I’m seeing Robbie. Do I need to kill you two in order to do it?”

  They leaned back, reaching for guns.

  “Yo, I thought you was cool with the Rats,” said the far man.

  “I’m not a very cool person,” she muttered. “I need a favor that I’m not prepared to wait for.”

  “This Syndicate bang?” asked the near man.

  “No, it’s personal.”

  “Yo, Rude, this bitch is nuts,” whispered the far man.

  “I’m also not deaf.” She stepped closer. “Get out of my way.”

  The Rats scooted away from the door.

  She glanced from it to them. “Shall I burn it down?”

  Rude leaned in, as if putting his hand too near a hungry lion. He poked at the silver control square, and the door slid open with a faint pneumatic hiss. As soon as it did, he leapt back.

  “Thanks. I just need to ask him for a favor. Don’t shoot me in the back.” She grasped the doorjamb, blackening a handprint into the painted Epoxil trim. “I’ll melt your balls off and leave you alive to enjoy it.”

  Neither man’s surface thoughts contained an inkling of intention to attack her. She winked at them and went inside. After climbing six flights of stairs, she headed down a hallway to Robbie’s apartment and let herself in. Smoke rose around her legs from the thick pile carpeting as she strode through the living room into the back hallway of an apartment once considered nice, before the sector turned grey. The sound of a holo-bar led her to a bedroom where a thick-bodied, naked man reclined on the bed, engrossed in the drama playing out on a ninety-inch slab of light. He might’ve had a few extra pounds, but his bronzed tan and sculpted body hair got her mind diverting to places the rest of her couldn’t go.

  He glanced at her as she walked in, raising one hand in greeting. “‘Sup, Kate.”

  “Hey, Walt. Where’s Robbie?”

  “You okay, girl? You look fit to be tied. Not that a rope could hold you.” Walt slapped his leg, laughing. “Really, what’s up? He’s in the tube.”

  “I’m having a bad day. I need to do something I should’ve done a long time ago.”

  “Righteous.” He leaned back, returning his attention to the movie.

  She stared down at her ‘sneakers,’ focusing psionic energy on suppressing the carpet’s desire to burst into flames. A few minutes later, a short Hispanic man, chest covered in tattoos, emerged from the bathroom with a coral-colored towel around his waist. As soon as he saw Kate, he stumbled backward.

  “Hey, Robbie.” She didn’t look up.

  “What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

  “It’s not a house, Robbie. This is an apartment. It’s not even an apartment really since you’re squatting.”

  “You semantic bitch.” Robbie laughed. “I’d hug ya, but…”

  She snarled.

  “Whoa…” He raised his hands. “Sorry, forgot. Shit, I can’t believe you’re still sober after all that. If I was you I’d have overdosed years ago.”

  Kate wandered to the dresser, the edge of her light-clothes shimmered bright blue where they touched the floating display panel. The dresser top held an assortment of derm patches, which she looked over before picking a lone coffee-colored hexagon up. She set it on the underside of her wrist, turning so Robbie could watch it melt, catch fire, and burn away to ash. Whatever chem saturated the pad tinted the fire deep emerald.

  “If I could use drugs, I’d be high all the time.”

  Robbie advanced on her, waving and growling. “You just scorched five hundred creds worth of Stardust. You planning to pay for it?”

  Walt covered his mouth to hide the grin.

  “Sorry,” she said, in a flat tone.

  “Sorry? You barge into my place and singe the fuck out of my carpeting. Then, you waste a dose and all you can’ fuckin’ come up with is ‘sorry’? If you was anyone else, I’d be callin’ Edmond to get your corpse outta here about now.”

  “I need a favor, Robbie. You still play in the net?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He waved both hands at her. “We’re not past the five hundred credits you owe me yet.”

  She looked at the collection of drugs on the bureau.

  “Wait!” he yelled. “Don’t.”

  “I want to know where the CEO of Laughlin-Reed Innovation lives.”

  “Can’t you get that from the VidPhone directory?” Robbie paced back and forth, one hand holding his towel in place.

  “I don’t know their name. If it was public information, do you think I’d be here right now?”

  Robbie looked at Walt. “You have such fucking awesome timing. We were about to―”

  Fire pooled at her feet, shimmering along the carpeting like orange liquid rolling down from her legs. She glared at Robbie.

  “Okay… Okay… Fuck’s sake, it’s not my fault you can’t―”

  Walt threw a pillow at him. “Rob, stop. You ain’t making her any happier.”

  Kate shuddered with rage, but stilled the burn. “Please, Robbie. All I’m asking is for you to find the son of a bitch and I’ll leave.”

  arius Reed leaned back in his chair, savoring the aroma of twin lobster tails. He rubbed his face and stretched out the fatigue of a fourteen-hour long day of meetings. A grin spread over his face as he studied the plate, turning it a little to get a look at the whole presentation. To his left, his eleven-year-old daughter stared at her dinner, pushing her lower lip out in an expression of indecision. On his right, his younger son attacked the unrecognized morsel with wild abandon.

  “Ashley, you know I’ve talked to you about your choice of clothing before.” The girl tugged at a pink shirt, hanging too low off her shoulder for Daddy’s comfort. “I expect you to put on something presentable before we leave.”

  She poked at the food; a series of quick pouty glances failed to change his mind.

  “There are people in this world that would be willing to kill you to eat that.”

  “If you get to have your hair like that with a suit, I should be able to wear what I want.” She stabbed a fork into the lobster tail. “It’s a giant bug, Dad. How is it a delicacy?�
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  His wife Margaret laughed. Darius looked across the table at her, unable to resist the urge to smile. “Your mother put a lot of effort into cooking for us tonight, Ash. She’s rather good at it. At least try it.”

  “Wait, this was alive?” The girl scrunched up her nose at her mother. “You killed some poor animal? Why do people go to culinary school anymore anyway? Machines do the cooking.”

  “Oh, now we feel guilty about it? I thought it was just a bug.” Darius chuckled, gesturing at the boy. “And it’s her hobby, like Charlie’s art.”

  “Isn’t it illegal to kill real animals for food?” She looked back and forth between them.

  “Some animals, yes,” said Margaret. “Lobsters aren’t one of them. There’s no shortage.”

  The girl gawped at her plate. “If this came out of the ocean, it’s toxic.”

  “Farm raised,” said Darius, digging in. “And cooked perfectly.”

  Margaret winked at him. He grinned and wagged his eyebrows at her. An hour or so from now, the kids would be on their way to his parents’, leaving him and Margaret nice and alone… for a whole weekend.

  Charlie held up his thumb, unable to speak due to a full mouth.

  A thud at the door drew their attention.

  “Oh, ignore it. Let Marcus deal with whoever it is.” Darius worked his knife, separating the second tail from the shell with a surgeon’s touch. “The only problem with this dinner is that I want more.”

  “You can have this one,” said Ashley. Her mother’s sad face made her pull the plate back. “Sorry.”

  The girl sectioned off a tiny piece and tasted it.

  A man’s scream in an outside hallway preceded a gunshot. The family jumped in unison. Margaret leapt out of her chair, racing to the VidPhone on the wall. Both children ran to their father. The apartment door, on the far end of a lavish room and enormous black leather sectional, slid open to reveal a hallway filled with grey fog.

  Marcus, the head of the Reed family’s security team, staggered in. He raised an arm to Darius, wheezing smoke from his lungs, and collapsed. Darius froze in place as a stunning auburn-haired woman in a dark jacket and tight leather pants stepped over his long-time friend. A cartoon punk rabbit on the front of her hot-pink t-shirt raised two middle fingers. She had no weapons, but her gaze drilled through him.