by Amy Cross
Chapter Three
Iris
The market's busier than ever this afternoon, but I expected as much. It always perks up after the rain's stopped. Besides, ever since the markets in Bayetsville and Cluhn were shut down and the martial controls were tightened, hawkers and buyers have been trying to find the next big hotspot in this region, and somehow they've settled on our dusty old town. For the past few weeks, I've noticed more and more people setting up stalls, and now some kind of peak pressure seems to have hit the place. Sometimes, it's barely even possible to move.
“Five and ten year yields!” a hawker shouts nearby. “Double your money without lifting a finger! What are you waiting for?”
Disgusted by the sight of people gathering around his stall, I almost bump straight into a guy with blue-vein implants on his face. He shoves me out of the way, and I stumble for a moment before managing to keep going. I feel as if I'm going to collapse at any moment, so I stop at a corner booth and hand over a few coins in exchange for a measly bag of insect larvae. Not my favorite snack, but they're okay so long as I swallow without chewing. I feel bad for spending money on food for myself, but I need a little fuel.
“Get a year's worth of credit!” another hawker tells the crowd, further ahead. “Nothing to put down today, full transfers possible from gold and silver memberships! Make money the way the rich do it!”
Damn it, if I had a stall, I'd make so much money. The problem is, these hawkers have already got the market cornered. It's good to have so many potential marks, but at the same time I feel a little lost in my own environment. I don't like strangers, and right now there are strangers everywhere, bumping against me and talking in languages I don't understand. It's like they think they own the place. Finally I stop over by the stadium's rear wall and take a breather, watching as masked figures make their way past. A little further along, two armed soldiers stroll through the crowd, on the lookout for trouble. Like all soldiers around here, eventually they'll get tired of waiting and they'll start something for themselves, and some poor bastard'll get hauled off to jail, never to be seen again.
A wise man once told me that you need three angers in life. Anger at injustice, anger at cruelty, and the anger to change things. I've got the first two just fine, but the third was beaten out of me long ago. I just care about survival.
“Hey,” a voice says suddenly, and before I can react I realize there's a figure scooching down to sit next to me.
“I don't -”
“It's me,” Bran adds, smiling as he nudges my arm. “What's up? You look like you're brooding on something. More than usual, I mean.” He reaches over and starts scraping a fingernail on my chin, but I quickly pull away. “You've got dirt on your face,” he continues.
“So?” Reaching up, I try to wipe it away.
“There's a lot of people out today,” he points out unnecessarily. “This place is really picking up, huh? Remember six months ago, when no-one wanted to be seen anywhere near our sector?”
“I'm just trying to work out my angle,” I tell him, with my eyes fixed on the crowd. To be honest, I usually prefer it when Bran doesn't come and talk to me. Thieves should work alone. “Stealing bread is fine, but I need something more.”
“Is that famous ten year plan not working out?” he asks.
“It's working out just fine,” I snap.
“Hey, I was only -”
“Don't!”
Sighing, I keep watching the crowd, hoping against hope that he'll leave me alone. I'm not in the mood to be made fun of, not today.
“You've got more dirt on your face,” he says after a moment. “Just below your ear.”
“I don't care.”
Still watching the crowd, I wait for Bran to leave. I can tell he's staring at me, but I won't give him the satisfaction of eye contact.
“There's way more Schiff ships in town,” he points out finally. “Must be delivery time, but even so... There's a big game at the stadium next week. One of the Bucks teams is coming for the regional play-off. You know what that means, right?”
“They'll clear the market for security.”
“Damn straight. Then there'll be busloads of outsiders coming in for a few hours, people who don't mind spending money. That's just the kind of situation where people like us can profit.”
I turn to him. “People like us?”
“You know what I mean.” He pauses, studying my face as if he's searching for something in my eyes. I've known Bran for more than ten years, and I swear I catch him looking at me funny sometimes. I don't like it. “So I was thinking,” he continues, “there's a spare room going in my building after Patch got shredded. If you like -”
I shake my head.
“It doesn't cost anything,” he continues. “Hear me out, okay? We look out for one another there, it's kind of a communal system, none of this dog-eat-dog garbage you get on the streets. As long as you contribute to the group, by which I mean you steal something and -”
“I have a place.”
“Some crack in the wall?”
“It's fine. I've gotten used to it.”
“I'm not saying this room is anything special,” he tells me. “It's not much bigger than a shoebox really, but there's a bed and a space of your own, and I figure it'd be good for you to spend time around other people again. Every time I see you, you seem more and more anti-social., like you've sunk deeper into yourself.” He pauses again. “I don't think you should be living alone, Iris. I don't think anyone should, but especially not you. It doesn't suit you at all.”
“I don't live alone,” I snap back. “I have my sister, remember?”
“Sure, but the two of you could squeeze into one room. You need to spend time with people your own age, and your sister could probably use some different company too. I mean, no offense, but it can't be good for either of you to only have each other all day.”
“We get along just fine,” I tell him, watching as an old woman walks past with her shoulder-bag hanging low. I could have that bag off her in a flash and disappear into the crowd, but one of my few rules is that I don't steal from the elderly. Maybe that'll change if I get hungrier, but it stands for now. I'm not like the really bad thieves around here, who'll steal anything from anyone. Hell, they'll even stab people to get what they want. “You don't need to worry about me,” I mutter, “I just -”
Suddenly I spot a flurry of movement, and the old woman is knocked to the ground as someone flashes past her and grabs her bag. The woman lets out a cry of pain as she lands, and I swear I hear the crack of a bone breaking. I start to get up, so I can hurry over and help her, but I stop when I see the two soldiers getting involved.
“Move,” I tell Bran, nudging his shoulder and getting to my feet, before slipping through the crowd, heading away around the curve of the stadium wall.
“What's the hurry?” he asks, struggling to keep up with me.
“Those soldiers'll have to pin the mugging on someone,” I point out. “I don't want it to be me.”
“You're paranoid.”
“I'm not paranoid!” I hiss. “I've seen it happen a thousand times!”
After hurrying past the concessions stand outside the stadium's main gate, I stop and look back. The soldiers and the old woman are lost in the crowd now, but I can hear voices shouting nearby. Turning, I look into the stadium's gloomy delivery bay and realize there's a distinct smell of stale urine. A little further off, hiding in the shadows, a couple of figures seem to be trying to make this place their home. Rookie mistake, of course. They must be new to the area, and they'll get picked off and killed pretty soon if they don't wise up. Unfortunately, rookies are often armed and sketchy, so I'd be risking my life if I went and offered advice.
Most likely they'll be dead soon.
“Come and at least look around,” Bran says after a moment. “Will you at least promise me that?”
I turn to him. “No.”
“Read between the lines, Iris,” he continues, le
aning closer. “The people in my building do more than just look out for one another. They discuss things, they plan.” He glances over his shoulder to make sure that no-one can listen in on our conversation, and then he turns back to me. “They talk about the future, about how it could be better, and about how people like us might be able to make a difference. They talk about specific steps we can take to turn these ideas into reality, to make the world a better place.”
“Are you saying they're -”
“You're not an idiot, so don't play dumb. You know there are people who don't like the way the world works. The 2238 Committee is a group of like-minded individuals who want to roll back the state's power to the pre-Fallio era, they want to do other things too, like legalizing religion again and ending the mandatory insertion of crypto-chips into newborn -”
“Don't,” I say firmly, interrupting him.
“Don't what?”
“Don't even say these things to me. I can't take the risk.” I look around again, to make doubly certain that no-one is listening to us. This market isn't short of people who'd gladly sell us out for a small reward. “Anyone who ever mentions that kind of thing risks prison or execution or worse,” I continue, turning back to him. “You could end up on the island.”
“That's not why people end up on the island and you know it. People go there when they've given up.” He puts a hand on his chest, over his heart, as if he thinks some melodramatic gesture might get his point across. “I haven't given up on the world, Iris. I never will. I still believe things can get better.”
Sighing, I check once again that there's no-one nearby.
“Don't you believe in the future?” he asks.
“I believe in my future,” I tell him, “and my sister's. I believe in getting the two of us out of here.”
“You don't want to fight the system?”
“Like a revolution?”
“Things can change,” he whispers, “and when they do, it happens fast. This government is built on shaky foundations, you just need to know where to find the cracks.”
“I can't hear you,” I reply, turning to look out at the crowd. “Leave me alone.”
“Just think about it,” he continues. “You know where my building is, right? Come drop by some time. At least sit in on one of our debates, hear the ideas that are being bandied about.”
He waits for me to say something, but I refuse. I figure I'll just give him the silent treatment, and eventually he'll get the message. Still, I had no idea he was dumb enough to get mixed up in stuff like this.
“Have you heard of Darius Locke?” he asks after a moment.
Sighing, I continue to watch the crowd.
“Locke's staying with us,” he adds.
I turn to him, shocked.
“See what I mean?” he continues, with a faint smile. He clearly thinks he's got me hooked. “Now do you understand that we're serious? We're not just another bunch of dilettantes, sitting around complaining about everything. Darius Locke is with us and he truly believes we can start bringing about real change.”
“Darius Locke is a fugitive!” I hiss, stunned by what I'm hearing. “He's a wanted killer!”
“He's a visionary.”
“He's a terrorist!”
“He's the future.” He pauses. “He's a man who gets things done.”
I pause, genuinely shocked that Bran would be involved with such people, and finally I shake my head. “I look after myself,” I tell him, getting ready to head back out into the crowd, “and I look after my sister. I don't get into any of that other dangerous stuff. I have a plan and I'm sticking to it. This time in ten years, I'll be rich and comfortable, and Della will be happy.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“One hundred per cent.”
“We all have to start thinking about the world,” he continues. “We have to find ways to take it back. Please come visit, Iris. I'd really like to have you around more. You can't just think about yourself all the time.”
“Don't follow me,” I mutter, slipping away and pushing through the crowd. The last thing I need is to get associated with dangerous people, but it's not my job to stop Bran if he wants to be an idiot. We're all monitored around here, they do everything except dig directly into our brains, so there's no way to keep that stuff hidden. Sooner or later, his building will get raided and everyone there will end up being dragged away. Ducking and weaving through the sea of jostling bodies, I feel better knowing that I'm not relying on anyone. Only idiots still talk about revolutions these days.
All that matters is finding food so that Della and I don't starve. And then one day, if we're really lucky, I might be able to move us to -
“There she is!”
Suddenly a set of bright lights flashes into my eyes. I turn and try to dart away, but a heavy, gloved hand grabs my shoulder and pulls me back. I try to not to panic, but the lights are from the helmets of two soldiers, and one of them slips in front of me with his gun raised, aimed straight into my eyes as the targeting system scans my face.
“This is her, isn't it?” the soldier asks, his face hidden behind a visor and mask.
Startled, I turn and see that the old woman is being helped up by several members of the crowd. She glances at me with a frown. “I'm not...” she stammers. “I don't think... No, I -”
“It's her,” one of the soldiers says, interrupting her as he sets a contact link around my left wrist. “She obviously ditched the bag, but this is the thief who robbed you.”
“No,” I stammer, my heart pounding as I try to think of a way out of this. “I swear, it's nothing to do with me, I was only -”
Before I can finish, I feel something hard smashing against the side of my head, sending a jolt through my brain. I slump forward, suddenly unable to see, and I'm unconscious by the time I hit the ground.
Chapter Four
Asher
As the slope levels out and I reach a clearing, I finally dare to turn and look back.
He lunges at me, snarling with anticipation. Hungry.
Chapter Five
Iris
Don't hurt me again. If you hurt me again, I'll kill you.
“Don't hurt me again,” I snarl, turning to the guard. “If you hurt me again, I'll -”
His baton smacks into the side of my face, knocking me back with such force that I slump against the wall and them crumple to the floor. The pain is intense, radiating across my shattered cheek, and I let out an involuntary gasp. I can feel blood, not just on my face but hot and cold at the same time beneath my flesh, seeping down to my jaw. Before he died, Abbot always told me to act tough if I got into a difficult situation, to never show any weakness, but right now I can barely even breathe.
“Get up,” the guard says firmly.
“I -”
“Get up!”
Realizing that a moment's hesitation will mean another kicking, I take a deep breath and then stumble up, somehow managing to stay upright on my trembling legs. For a moment, the whole corridor seems to spin around me, but I take a couple of steps forward and focus on the door at the far end. Somehow I manage to keep going, with the guard's baton bumping several times against the small of my back, pressing into my prison-issue tunic. By the time I get to the door, I've lost all hope of acting tough. It's hard enough to keep from crying.
“Alright,” the guard mutters, reaching past me and swiping his hand against the wall sensor, “in you go.”
I stare straight ahead as the door slides open.
***
“Iris Bloom,” the interrogator reads from the first page of his file. “That's a name, huh?”
Staring at him, I can't help but feel stunned by his smooth skin. There are a few wrinkles, sure, but he's the first adult I've ever seen in my life who doesn't have scars and cuts or any sign of illness at all. He looks, I don't know... healthy. Like a kid. What kind of life could a man lead, that he ends up in his thirties or early forties with no scars in his face at all, with
no injuries or diseases?
“Iris Bloom,” he says again, frowning as he continues to look at the file. “You know, this might sound weird, but that really sounds like the name of someone important. Someone who might... do something.” He pauses, before setting the file down and turning to me with a smile. “Oh well. I guess there are always excep -”
He stops suddenly.
“What happened to you?” he asks.
I wait. Is this a trick question?
“Your face,” he continues, tilting his head slightly, like a dog. “What happened to your cheek?”
Turning, I see the guard standing at the door. He doesn't look at me.
“It's okay,” the interrogator continues, “you're allowed to talk in here. I can only assume that you've been disciplined at some point since your arrest. Well...” He sighs. “These things happen, Iris, and we must learn from them. My name is John Logan, and I've been assigned to your case. I'm a duty officer here at the center, which means that I pretty much spend all day helping people such as yourself.”
I turn back to him.
“So,” he continues, with a faint smile, “as you're probably aware, you were picked up for a violent robbery -”
“That wasn't me,” I say firmly.
“Probably not,” he replies. “We both know how this works. Unfortunately, your record also shows a surprising -”
“Where's my sister?” I ask, interrupting him, although I'm immediately shocked by how gravelly and dry my voice sounds. Like it's not really me.
“Your sister?”
“I want to see her right now.”
He frowns. “Was she arrested at the same time as you?”
I shake my head.
“How old is she?” he asks.
I feel a faint flicker of pain rippling through my cheek. “Eleven.”
“Someone should check on her, then,” he continues, making a note on his pad. “I'll make sure that a team is sent to the address we have on file for you. Now, as for your situation, young lady, you're in rather a lot of trouble.”
