by Talis Jones
And just like that the Twelve become Eleven.
The price of a candy bar.
With Tola’s assessment of the men being smugglers I wonder if it was candy at all.
Liza takes something from her pocket and goes to hurl it away from herself in anger when instinct has me lunging for it. “Wait!” I bark. I take the bar from her shaking fist and examine it. The wrapping is for some sort of strawberry-filled chocolate, but when I peel back the golden foil I find something that would rather go boom. A soft-ish substance with a wire poking out and attached to the wrapping. The moment you tear it open to take a bite you’ve just pulled the pin on a grenade.
“This isn’t candy,” I whisper mournfully. Meeting the eyes of the others I give a command but it comes out sounding more like a plea. “Trust nothing. We’ve been locked away for a while and it seems the world is still at war. 42 freed us. She has a plan. If anyone hated the system the most then it was her and one thing I’m sure about is that she has a plan. Maybe she’ll need our help someday and we have to be alive to give it.” I take a deep breath. “We were chosen,” I remind them. “Let us prepare the way.”
I cross through the wall to get away from a land that holds nothing but nightmares, praying the day 42 calls me back is far away, only to reach the other side and find six guns aimed at my person. Briefly I wonder how many of us will be left before we find sanctuary.
The sounds of Jax and Tola struggling in the grip of a huge goon, the rest of our group coming to a frightened stop behind me, and the lingering sobs of Liza’s loss swirl around me but I don’t let them touch me. With an innocent smile I raise my hands into the air, a prize in one fist.
“Candy bar?” I offer.
Two
PRESENT DAY
Sweat coats my body in a sticky sheen as I jolt awake still shuddering from the nightmare…memory…nightmory? Whatever, same thing.
In the distance water laps against the shore and an imitation bell dings from the gently tilting docks. That’s one thing I’ll never understand about this bizarre dreamland place. Everything is tech. Not a bell, but a device that measures the rocking of waves and releases different tempos and tones based on how stormy or calm the harbor feels like dancing that day. What’s wrong with a real bell? In the weak light of dawn I can just make out the massive bronze note hanging above us. It’s cracked, old, and the rope to make it swing has been cut but even so…it still hangs there powerful, larger than life, an ancient relic…beautiful.
Then I remember the factories in the Southern Coalition that make tech for a wage cheaper than art with the added benefit of a “made over here and not over there” stamp to boost patriotic sales. Another shudder follows up on the shakes over Nathan that have finally slowed. With an inward sigh I fling off my blanket, recoiling at the winter cold that rushes in where my warm cocoon of body heat had been a second ago. Changing silently I grab my synthetic wool coat and some shoes then tiptoe past my roomie and down the spiral stairs.
In the tiny kitchen that was really only fit for making tea until Yosef threw out the portable oven that fit just a pizza slice at a time, took out a wall, and made it “barely acceptable” to Castor our cook, I fill a glass of water and drink it dry before crushing a dental tablet between my teeth and rinsing it out in the sink. Alert from the shock of nightmares and cold I knot my sneakers by the strings and sling them over my shoulder before lacing on my precious skates and rolling out into the city that lies silent, unaware of the awakening to come.
The wheels bolted to my boots grumble softly over the sidewalk as I skate toward the docks and pull my music box out of my pocket. With chilly fingers I unwrap the headphones from around the little box and fit them snugly over my ears like magic earmuffs that sing only for me. Vintage tech is my niche and the fam know it. KJ made my skates for my last birthday and Yosef found, created, or I don’t know but he got me the music box for the Christmas before last after I lamented the psycho pop they play on the waves.
“Psycho pop?” he asks.
I turn my grumpy face towards his arched brow. “Yeah, because only psychos think that noise is music,” I grouse.
“What kind of music do you like?”
He doesn’t often ask personal questions. It just isn’t who he is. At least not once he’s drained you of your secrets for his cache. A little suspicious I tell him, “Something made with heart instead of computers.”
He snorts. “Vintage. Should’ve known.”
Christmas rolled around and I found my jaw on the floor when I unwrapped the music box and headphones. First of all, he wrapped them. Second of all, he remembered that little nothing conversation from months ago and loaded the device up with songs I’d never heard of but that instantly had me dancing around the room or crying from their pain. I tried to turn the volume up loud enough so we could hear through the headphones together, but they just shrugged at it while I couldn’t stop grinning. When I turned that grin onto Yosef I swore I caught a satisfied smirk before he erased it for his aloof default.
I sigh at the memory, my breath puffing out into a little cloud in the cold. When will that idiot kiss me? I wonder.
Never, a more logical voice answers. Geniuses and gang leaders aren’t romance novel heroes and they definitely don’t go for a rainbow bunny on wheels.
I glance down at my colorful attire and fight back a scowl. After being a prisoner for four years where the walls were harsh white, the furniture was steel grey, and my uniform was the blue of a stormy ocean I used to stare at hoping it’d either rescue or drown me, I revel in my rainbow wardrobe. I only wear black as an accent color or on missions and the one time Yosef had tried to put me in all white I smacked him hard enough to leave a mark and have me hightailing it out of there before I died because no one ever hits Yosef. Not once has someone tried to hurt him without walking away bloodied and bruised if they walked away at all.
He found me, of course. With cameras on every block and Arcas to hack them I hadn’t really bothered trying to hide. Terror seized me that day like I hadn’t felt in a long time. I’d been barely a year with the Rolling Bones and yet I’d found a family, something I’d left once in the Pacific Confederation, again scattered across the Southern Coalition, and now I faced losing a family again. I’d take a hit so long as I didn’t lose them. Third time must really be the charm though because all Yosef did was ask me why then never made me wear white again. He didn’t let anyone wear all white in our house.
“Ooo they think I’m crazy when I’m smilin’…” my music box sings in my ear before changing to a groovy bop about a rubber band man. I dance down the empty sidewalk in my pink skates towards a little stand that’s seen better days. I wait for a fisherman to receive his order before it’s my turn. “Morning, Frank,” I grin.
The man grins back. “Always stating the obvious,” he teases. “The usual?”
I nod and he begins preparing my tea. It only takes a minute since I drink it black but I use that moment to ogle a bit. You’d think three years would be long enough to get used to the beauty of tech in these parts but it isn’t. Not for me, anyway. Frank told me in confidence that he’s just shy of seventy-five though by all appearances he can’t be much older than half that. Weird. But that’s the Rochester Alliance. Fake bells, fake faces, fake dreams.
Frank passes me the biodegradable cup full of steaming tea and I thank him. “Merry Christmas, Frank!”
“Thanks, freckles,” he grins back.
Rolling down a mostly empty pier I come to a stop and lean against the rail. I wait about three minutes for my tea to steep then carefully remove the bag and toss it into the harbor.
“For freedom,” I murmur.
“One day you’re going to get into trouble for that,” a voice calls.
I pivot with an innocent look upon my guilty face. “I don’t know what you mean, KJ.”
KJ technically stands for his real name, Karter Johnson, but I like to pretend it stands for Kill Joy. Not much older than me
, blond and blue-eyed, tattooed from neck to ankle, gauges in his ears…you’d think he’d cut a scary figure, and he does, but the moment you hear his soft German accent all you can think about is hearing more. And then you do and you find out he’s a big ol’ windbag Negative Nancy who definitely suffers from acute paranoia and you lose all interest. But he can make anything and even if he can’t help himself from popping babies’ balloons he’s got loyalty and heart down to the core and I love ‘im.
KJ doesn’t smile at my lie though to be fair he rarely ever smiles. “What are you doing here on the docks so early in the morning?” I ask.
“Buying materials,” he answers matter-of-factly.
“Buying or taking?” I pry while waggling my eyebrows.
“Buying.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay.”
“You shouldn’t throw your teabags into the harbor,” he insists, bringing back up that nonsense.
“It’s a biodegradable bag and string and the tea is natural,” I argue. “Tell me who I’m hurting.”
“The crew,” he snaps. “What starts out as one little teabag in the harbor will turn into a stakeout for the act by environmental extremists which will bring in the cops and they’ll find our base and the next thing you know we’re all getting injected with a permanent sleep because the local prisons are too full or shipped out to a prison camp in the S.C. or–” He cuts himself off with a sharp click of his tongue. “And I’m sure the fish don’t like it either,” he concludes.
I take a sip of my tea and say nothing.
He looks away, the tips of his cheekbones just a little too red to be from the cold.
“I will try not to get us thrown into prison or slain for a teabag,” I promise.
He gives a jerky nod. “You coming home soon?”
“Not sure. Why?”
“Castor said he found something.”
I purse my lips. “Something or someone?”
KJ shrugs. “Likely the latter if he’s that excited about it.”
“Right, well, I won’t be too long then,” I agree. Mr. Kill Joy strikes again. It’s not that he means to, he just has a way of delivering news with impeccable timing and accuracy to burst my bubble of peace. There’s nothing wrong with adding someone new to the Rolling Bones, but as it doubles as my family I tend to get a little protective. A little worried. Maybe a little threatened.
I down the last of my tea, toss the cup into the recycler, and take the shortest route home that I can skate over knowing that KJ would tell Yosef he saw me and Yosef would expect me not to waste his time waiting.
Carefully climbing the stone steps into the little cathedral I roll inside to find everyone gathered around something. “I hear Castor picked up a stray,” I say cheerily in way of greeting.
The crew part and I take in the tiny pale figure with short unkempt white blonde hair and wide eyes the lightest shade of grey. “What are those?” she asks in awe while pointing towards my feet.
“Deathtraps,” Yosef mutters under his breath though I can hear him just fine and I respond with a glare.
Ignoring her question I ask, “How old are you?” She looks so tiny.
“Ten,” she breathes nervously.
“Got a name, Ten?” I ask. Castor rolls his eyes but no one stops my interrogation. We all want answers and despite my words, it’s tough to be intimidated by a walking rainbow. At least compared to the genius, the forger, the hacker, the assassin, and the street fighter in the room.
She hesitates.
“Is it complicated?” I wonder a tinge sarcastically, trying to decipher her reluctance to share such basic information. Normally I’m the warm fuzzy personality of the group so my sharpness surprises me.
“Chi,” she spits out finally.
“Kai? Hmm,” is all I say. The others move as I skate a slow circle around her raking my gaze head to toe. “Frocket,” I decide.
“Frocket?” she asks, puzzled by the word…or the choice…probably both.
I nod. “I’m calling you Frocket. Ya know, a frocket? A front pocket? Like those little ones they sometimes stitch on for fashion but don’t actually function? Frocket. You’re cute, tiny, and mostly useless.”
Her eyebrows fly up and I catch the tiniest glimmer of anger from my insult in her eyes.
“You’re definitely cute and tiny,” Castor compliments the kid kindly. “And everyone is mostly useless until you figure out your role in the group.” He throws me a disapproving frown that I grin at. “Come on, I’ll show you around,” he offers taking Frocket’s tiny hand in his.
Yosef levels a look at me. “What?” I ask innocently.
Nyx saunters on silent steps to my side throwing an arm around my neck. “Ah, darling Maddy and her candy-sweet mouth.”
I arch a brow at her. “Are you trying to bribe me with those compliments?”
She laughs. For an assassin, she laughs an awful lot. “Let me paint your skates?”
“Unsupervised?” I snort. “I don’t think so.” She’d sooner paint them all black and gory, ruining them to rile me despite her usual art style being beautiful studies in color.
“Fine,” she mock sighs. With a sudden hard shove she sends me rolling wildly towards the others. “She’s all yours,” she sings then disappears through the oak doors. Whether to paint in her studio, garrote someone, or shop for cookies in the bakery, it’s anyone’s guess and why we never ask. She comes with loyalty and brings in funds for the crew and that’s all Yosef cares about.
The shove startled me, but on a flat floor I can control it and I begin to pivot to an easy stop when a loose chunk of flooring catches my wheel and sends me tumbling. Yosef, who always sees everything, catches me and looks down into my flushed face.
“Like I said,” he growls softly. “Deathtraps.”
I right myself and keep my eyes down until he lets go. The moment his touch releases me I take off in a lap around the big empty space, careful to avoid the cables and tools of the workstations for the crew, and just to make Yosef scowl I jump and finish the lap backwards.
Arcas tugs on one of my pigtails. “One of these days you’re going to roll right into a bus just to show off or give Yosef a heart attack,” he teases.
“Don’t blame me,” I dismiss teasingly. “KJ made ‘em for me.”
“Exactly,” he huffs. “Trust Kill Joy to kill our joy.”
I blush and scrunch my nose at him, a tease poised on the tip of my tongue when the sound of a door slamming steals my attention. What has Yosef so upset?
Three
“No fights,” Castor growls, shoving the door closed behind him with his boot.
“Finally!” I cry. “I’m starving.”
Castor gives me a grin and I swat away his hand as he ruffles my hair walking past the table into the kitchen.
“None?” Arcas asks surprised then answers his own question. “Ah, the diplomat.”
“The who?” I ask just as Frocket skips down the stairs with Nyx in tow. She’s ten, not a toddler I scoff unkindly in my head. I don’t know why the kid bothers me, but she does. Harmless, adorable…and wrapping everyone around her cute little finger. I beat back a jealous scowl and instead flick a rubber band at Arcas.
“Hey!” he snaps. “You’re really annoying with your rubber bands, you know that?”
I narrow my gaze before shaking my head. “Nah, you’d miss me.”
“I would not,” he insists crossing his arms.
“Hey, I thought Androids can’t lie!” I protest.
He grins. “We can’t.”
My chest gives a twinge of hurt and he quickly backpedals. “But we can decide how to interpret questions and I meant that I would not miss you with your rubber bands.” He leans forwards to pat my hand. “I’d certainly miss you though.”
“Mhmm,” I tease, mollified by his words.
“I would! And I can’t lie,” he nods decidedly.
I grin and lean back in my chair. Yosef strides inside with a quick “Ass and
no feet on the chair, Maddy” tossed over his shoulder. I huff and uncurl myself from the metal seat to drop my feet onto the floor and sit properly.
“The carnival reaches out everywhere I turn…”
Twirling another rubber band around my index fingers I take in Arcas while my music dances softly in my ears barely loud enough to hear. One eye looks human and is a warm brown like melted chocolate while the other is just a blue optical lens that pivots and flashes having lost the eye casing that would hide him as human. From temple to cheek on that side he’s missing his synthetic skin covering like a slash as well as patches along his limbs revealing glimpses of circuitry.
According to Arcas, newer models have self-repairing skin fabrics, but not him. He’d have to go to a hospital or return to his engineering facility to be repaired and doing that would include a diagnostics test that would reveal all of Yosef’s tampering. He’d be repaired, reset, and resold. It isn’t illegal for an Android to be outdated and frayed though and so long as that’s the case Arcas happily stays with us as is.
“Where were you before Yosef found you?” I ask suddenly.
Arcas tilts his head. “Where were you?”
I wrinkle my nose and shrug. “Prison.”
His eyes forget to blink, or maybe he overrides that function just to observe my reaction longer. “I was as well, except perhaps mine was a bit more luxurious.”
“This world has a lot of people who take,” I observe bitterly.
Arcas attempts a smile. “Including us.”
Yosef takes his seat at the head of our shabby table, his attention fixated on scrolling through something on his tablet. “If you’re done being poetic about your pasts then we have bigger things to discuss.”
Arcas and I roll our eyes at each other before turning away and only then do I remember that Nyx and Frocket are playing nearby, certainly well within hearing distance. Great, I mutter in my head.
“Castor, is dinner ready yet?” Nyx calls out, unfolding her tall willowy form from her spot beside Frocket on the floor and coming to claim a seat at the table. Her hands are spotless though every other part of her has a fleck, splash, or smear of paint and chalk. She calls it her signature look though when she’s on a job it’s her hands that become smeared in red while the rest of her is clean as a lab coat leaving no trace behind.
