The Ward

by Frankel, Jordana

  One drop-off, I remind myself. Even just one is worth it.

  I can’t stand to look at all them, the faces—the life count. ’Cause I’m not Aven or Callum. They can see the numbers. Giving is a part of them. If life were a numbers game, they’d count for infinity.

  They’re the ones you can count on, because they never count themselves.

  They’re too good.

  I’ve never been too good. And that’s my saving grace.

  My mind relaxes, my grip eases on the wheel—because I can handle one.

  I reach for my headset to sync it with my cuffcomm. Earbud in my ear, mic by my mouth, I’m ready as I’ll ever be. “I’m in,” I say to the others, and take a swig from my canteen while my hands are still free. The static comes back in rounds, our signals linking up.

  “Took you long enough,” one voice crackles.

  Oh, Kent. I’m going to love having you in my head this race.

  “Whoo! Drop-off one—down!” Terrence yells.

  When Jones calls out two seconds later that he’s made his second drop-off, I say into my mic, “B, I’m putting these guys on mute. Too many voices—it’s gonna drive me bonkers.”

  I think Ter actually boos me. Then it’s only me and Benny.

  Strapped into my Rimbo, everything comes into focus. Liquid nerves shift to metal. Breathing turns metronome even. This is the only place where I know what I’m doing. Everything else may have changed, but not this. Not here.

  One last time, I project a map of the route onto my lap and face it westward, the direction I’m headed. Neon-green, yellow, and red lines warp over my thighs, but the refresher is enough:

  Yellow—the eleven rooftops, total.

  Red—my five sickhouse drop-offs.

  The entire route is no longer than half a mile, and my cuffcomm reads T minus nineteen minutes. Nineteen minutes till the governor’s squadron flies through, dropping off their “cure.” Eleven jumps . . . I should be done in less than five minutes. Seven, max.

  Depending on what Derek’s chosen. Will he tell Kitaneh I’m alive?

  Slow and steady, I ease against the acceleration—not one of my cargo will I let get destroyed ’cause I jumped the gun. My Rimbo rolls forward. I lean in, give it more. The wheels drag against a thin layer of undrained water covering the copper rain-collection panels.

  Into my mic, “I’m off, Benny.”

  I’m moving faster now, but I’ll need to gather enough speed to make the jump. I step on the acceleration—the mobile jolts forward and I watch my water tank drop a notch. The edge nears and I check for my heading on the steering wheel’s rotating compass globe—270 degrees. I’ll need a bearing of 263, so I angle left before giving a propulsion boost.

  I watch the black slide closer. Once more, gunning the steam engine—here it comes.

  My Rimbo sails over the side. With a lurching stomach, neck tight to the headrest . . . A smile creeps up. This next moment, right before the drop—I live for it. Despite the fear brewing in my head, my body goes giddy. The mobile hits the highest point of the arc.

  Ain’t nothin’ but now.

  For not even a fraction of a second, I’m weightless. I’d stay this way forever if I could, holding in my air like a balloon. ’Cept I’m no balloon.

  My Rimbo begins to fall. Up and up, my stomach rises into my chest. Out of habit, I reach for my favorite button: ROCKIN’. Another pre–Wash Out classic spills from the speakers, this time chosen by Benny.

  “Nice, B.” I laugh-snort into the mouthpiece. He’s passing me a not-so-secret message via the lyrics.

  “Just want you to be careful, that’s all,” he answers, and the line goes quiet, just in time for the chorus.

  Low rider, don’t use no gas now, low rider, don’t drive too fast.

  Ten feet over the second roof, I lean forward to keep the rear from bottoming out.

  Too late I see it—the main gutter, smack where I’m about to land. My Rimbo skids—You brackin’ idiot, how did you miss that? One rear wheel in the gutter, I’m at a sideways slant. Now I’ve got to get outta the ditch.

  I watch my water level drop even more as I step on the acceleration and then hit the propulsion button. This time, I give it everything. Full speed ahead, I angle the wheel toward the fourth roof instead of the third, ’cause I won’t be touching down there.

  My first delivery may be on that roof, but I’m going over it.

  The edge is nearer, nearer, and I forget how to breathe. Just this one drop, just one—

  Then I’m hurtling over the side. In midair, I reach for the first box. I slide open the weight chute using my foot, and a gust of cold floods the pit.

  I look down. Between my feet—drainage pipes. Here goes. I drop the box.

  Like a vacuum, it blows through the chute, then out of sight behind my mobile. I crane my neck. Land on the roof, just this one.

  And there it is—bouncing along the rooftop. Into the mic, “Drop-off one complete!” I burst, and exhale so hard, I can feel my lungs tugging together. It worked. . . . It worked.

  Too soon, my stomach pitches, lungs sucked dry by the drop. I look down. Under me, Mad Ave—no, no, no. A good thirty feet too far.

  Was my speed wrong?

  More propulsion—head folded between my knees, I peer down the chute, willing the mobile on in my head. She listens. I watch as my Rimbo closes the gap. . . .

  And forget to drop the second box.

  “Brack!” I curse, teeth clenched. Fast, before landing, I chuck it through the opening. My Rimbo touches down, and a handful of gravel sprays into the pit. Pings my face, stings my tongue. I shut my trap with a whimper and look left.

  Three feet over, I could’ve landing on metal paneling.

  I realize something else: the open chute . . . it’s why I almost didn’t make it to the fourth roof. Air in the pit was dragging my Rimbo—What are you, a rookie? I scold, and cut the wheel at a hard right, for a heading of 340 degrees. Off the northeastern corner toward the fifth roof on my route I go, hating myself for not being more careful. I’m so in my head, I almost miss them—

  Beamers . . . ? Only three hundred feet away. By Central Bay. Can’t be Ter, he’s probably at Quad Three by now. The mobile jumps from roof to roof, closer. Headed straight for me . . . This is not good. Flipping on the comm line. “Come in, come in, Benny—” I say into my mouthpiece. “You see what I’m seeing?”

  He should have a clear view of this from the Empire Clock—I wait.

  “I am, and you’re not alone. Four of you, four of them,” he tells me through static, but now I’m not paying attention. Rear first, I’m whipped down. My Rimbo bottoms out—I forgot to lean forward—and even my suspension system turns against me.

  I curse myself yet again as the steering wheel throws itself to the left and my tires spin out beneath me.

  “Did you just bottom out, Renata?” Benny asks.

  Even through a headset, he knows.

  It’s enough to nearly set me off. . . . Everything is going to pieces.

  Then, like a Slinky on steroids, the shock coils decompress. Send my butt flying. I’m thrashed upward into the glass, without even my hair to ease the blow. A throbbing ache closes my eyes for me, and when I do open them, I still can’t see.

  Before my Rimbo touches down again, I straighten the wheel. Where does the roof end?

  Landing, I hammer on the brakes, eyes open. Whited-out vision turns to purple, to brown, then tall rectangles fill in my blind spots. Tall rectangles, and . . . something else. Like a bullet. Black. Beelining for my Rimbo, headlights blinding in the distance.

  An Omni—

  One of the Tètai.

  But it’s too soon for things to go so wrong. . . . I’ve only made two drop-offs. In my chest, panic starts shredding my nerves. It turns me stupid, tempts me to look through the window. Just to make sure . . . it could be Derek, not Kitaneh or the others. But that’s a terrible idea—my Rimbo’s slowed to a standstill. I’ll be squashed. Clum
sy, disoriented, I spin my torso in all directions trying to get my bearings even though my instincts are telling me to move, any direction.

  Then I look down. On my steering wheel, the compass sphere has stopped revolving—at precisely the right heading. I’m arrowed toward my third drop-off.

  The hardest on my route. I laugh. A belly-full whoop of a laugh. This small bit of fate . . . it’s like the universe is forgiving me for tonight’s muck ups. Keeping me afloat for the next jump. I’m reminded that it ain’t game over, not yet. I gun the steam engine and I don’t lift my foot. Not even as the tank dips below half.

  My Rimbo plows ahead, aimed for the sloped plates. I’ll use them as ramps for picking up speed, but not because the next roof is far. Worse. The jump is a rise, not a drop. Meaning up. Glancing right, northwest, I search for the Omni—spot the headlights twenty feet away.

  But it’s not Kitaneh in the driver’s seat.

  Copper hair, sparkling and obvious despite the Omni windshield’s dark tint.

  Derek? I don’t understand. . . . All those things he said—he could never hurt me—were they even true?

  If he’s here to stop me . . .

  The muscle of my heart wants to rip itself apart and fight, all at the same time.

  I understood what he was saying before, outside the hospital. A part of me even agrees. People dying from a disease is horrible, but it’s nature. Sitting back, not trying to stop a genocide from happening? That’s an entirely different beast.

  I don’t want to go against him. But I will.

  “Come in, Ren—” Benny calls through my headset. “The others . . . something’s happened. I’m syncing you up again.”

  A broken stream of static hits my ear, and below my tires I feel the incline. I hold down the rear propulsion, allowing for drag caused by the chute. It’ll burn a trail behind me. The Omni will see my path like I’ve drawn him a map.

  Plating disappears. I’m riding on air.

  And then . . . Kent’s voice: “No! Ter, you can’t head back—My dad . . . the vial!”

  “I’ve got no choice. . . .” Ter answers. Screeching metal, then feedback. I can’t breathe for a moment—Is Ter hurt?—and then I hear his voice again. “I’m on three tires as it is—they took out my fourth. . . . I have to, man, I’m sorry.” More feedback, more metal, all of it high-pitched and grating.

  Like in free fall, I feel my stomach drop, far far away. Not the others too . . .

  “Dammit, Terrence. Jones . . . you can do it, you’re nor—” His voice cuts out. “Brack,” I hear him grunt. “What the—? Where’d the package go? It just disa—”

  The other Tètai have got to be here too. . . .

  I’ve still got a job to do. Let them come after me.

  I shift my weight till my Rimbo’s nose up. The distance shrinks away. Thirty feet becomes twenty, then ten. Open chute—holding the third box, I wait. At five feet, my stomach knows what’s coming—the apex of the jump.

  Last minute, I look around for the Omni. My skin itches; I can’t find it.

  Eyes back on the chute. When the metal-plated roof is about seven feet below, I let go of the box.

  Fountain of youth superserum—away.

  Spinning around to watch it, I lean on the wheel and even out the nose. The box is sucked backward. It dips down, and I wait for it to hit the roof.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  Meanwhile, my Rimbo lands easily on the copper plating, only a slight skid to grapple with. I kill the propulsion. The pit darkens. Why’d it get dark? My gut knots, and looking up, I see . . . an undercarriage?

  Covering the right half of the moonroof’s dome—the black bullet, sailing overhead. Derek’s Omni can fly. A steam-powered, 100 percent metal-clad aeronautical mobile.

  Brack.

  When I turn, looking over my right shoulder, I pound my fist against the glass. The third box. Dangling in midair. It’s been caught in a net with magnets sewn into the wire meshing, which is attached to the Omni. Suddenly, I can’t move—my rib cage actually hurts my lungs. With my nose pressed to the right curve of the moonroof, I watch as the package floats away, like magic. It’s raised up and up, then into the mobile via the open chute.

  Fifty vials, Fifty Avens. Gone. Just like that.

  I can’t believe he’s doing this. . . . It’s worse than betrayal. He warned me. I should have known.

  That don’t make it hurt less, though.

  I need to try and stop it. Stop him.

  But do I have time? I can’t check my cuffcomm—I need both hands on the wheel. “Benny,” I call into the mic, knuckles tight to the wheel. “How long before the squadrons come through?”

  A few moments later, “Twelve minutes,” he says. Then, “But, Ren, Terrence is back, and so is Jones—Kent . . . we don’t know where he is. But this is not a competition. No one made it to their last drop-off. It’s dangerous out there. I want you off in seven.”

  Very rarely does he go so far as to try and tell me what to do, so I know he’s serious. Doesn’t mean I’ll listen, though. Depends on what I can do in seven minutes. I try to veer right, but my Rimbo refuses.

  The metal groans—I’m jolted forward, thrown from the seat. Turning my head, I do a double take: the black Omni.

  It’s behind me . . . ?

  I look up—

  It’s also above me. Now I’m really confused.

  They must be tag-teaming, Derek and Kitaneh.

  One Omni roars at my rear, gains speed. Next thing I know, it’s by my side, our metals screeching together. Sparks firework between us. That driver who wants to kill me . . . must be Kitaneh. She sideswipes my Rimbo so hard, she’s gotta be trying to flip it. Half the mobile lifts.

  I look left, fuming. . . . Benny worked too hard on this job for me to watch it undone in a matter of seconds. But when I look through the glass at the shock of rusty, brassy hair . . .

  I nearly choke.

  It’s Derek.

  I knew he might try to stop me. But this? It’s like all of a sudden he wants worse than that—he wants me dead. As I look again, though, I realize I’m not so sure. His features are off, somehow. The jaw is too square. Shoulders, too thick. This guy looks like Derek, but something is different.

  So there’s a Derek look-alike trying to kill me to my left, and another black Omni overhead, who could be Derek or could be Kitaneh.

  Out of nowhere, I feel my Rimbo being pushed down. I look up through the moonroof, and see the undercarriage of the other Omni staring back at me.

  It’s keeping me from flipping over.

  No way would Kitaneh try to help me, ever.

  That must be Derek above. He’s trying to help me. . . .

  For a moment, the realization almost undoes me. That he could be against the others . . . because of what I said. It feels too big, and I try not to think about what it means.

  Turning once again to the front, I see a silver cord dangling—the netting’s metal tail. Smack in the middle of my windshield. The package. It’s dragging behind my mobile, skidding and throwing sparks of its own. So close, if my roof were open, I could reach for it myself.

  Still gripping the wheel steady, my palms grow hot and begin to cramp. I accelerate, and watch my water tank drop to a third. The Derek look-alike accelerates. I pull back. So does he. He’s my echo—I can’t stay locked like this forever.

  I rotate my left wrist to find my cuffcomm: nine minutes till the Blues get here. Four to finish my route. Assuming I take Benny’s warning.

  In my head I do the math. My last drop-off lies a full five boardwalks west, not including diagonals. I can’t make two more. Not under six minutes. Not with Kitaneh and Derek around.

  Out the back of the moonroof, I watch the copper box ricocheting behind the engine.

  In nine minutes, those fifty people will be given a “cure”—a drug they believe will save them. The thought adds metric tons to my bones, my muscles. Like there’s something inside me so empty, so b
arren, that it actually has a weight. The fifty faces paint themselves against my mind, all in shades of Aven. This time, I look.

  And then I decide.

  I’m leaving it.

  I step on the pedal and flip the propulsion boost. The combination of a steam engine plus the thrust sends my Rimbo barreling forward. Barbs of guilt prod, but I don’t try to pull away. I feel them all. They deserve that much.

  The Omni overhead lifts up, the other trailing behind.

  With the building’s edge in sight, I hold the wheel steady, then race nearer and nearer to it. Then, I’m over it.

  In midair, I get my bearings by looking straight ahead to the West Isle, and above the electric city, clouds muddy together in oranges and purples, all ink-tinged. Smoke from the riot still hides the tallest buildings, and a wispy fog rolls in across the Strait.

  Through it, I can see white specks, probably from people’s windows, but . . .

  The specks—they’re moving.

  Just as I’m about to land on the seventh roof—

  “Ren! Come in, Ren!” Benny’s voice is tinny in my ear. A stream of white noise spits from my earpiece. He gives me no time to answer—“Get out, now,” he says. “The DI . . . they’re here!”

  They’re early.

  I touch down on the seventh roof, metal clunking as it rebounds. Through the fog, what were specks in the sky moments ago are quickly becoming a full-on light show. Vibrations shudder my mobile, make me clamp my jaw tight with understanding: it’s not the squadron with the governor’s cure. Those are straight Blues helis, and they’re circling the Ward in swarms.

  Correction: circling me in swarms.

  50

  11:42 P.M., SUNDAY

  The helis fly out of the mud-colored clouds as if they were born there. I feel acid-filled. I’m poison that I want them to drink up. In my ear, our signals mix—my mic shrieks, they’re flying so close now. Several hundred feet away, their high beams and spotlights cast broken circles everywhere—the sickhouse rooftops . . . they’re landing on each of ’em and gathering the packages.

  I’m cut off from my two last drop-offs. The final sickhouses on my route.