by B. C. Tweedt
He was tied to a chair, gagged and bleeding. Orion stood over him rubbing his knuckles, an evil smirk on his face. Greyson spat blood at him, but it came up short. Smug, Orion wound up for another punch.
“Got punched.”
Beep jerked away and stood almost proud. Then she pulled her half-head of hair to the other side, revealing what she kept hidden underneath. Her rubbery flesh was matted – her right ear shriveled to nothing but a gnarled stub. Then she let her hair fall over it again. “Got burned.”
Not to be outdone, Windsor spun around, showing a long scar stretching across his lower back. “Drone shrapnel.”
No deception read on Greyson’s HUD.
Grimes held up his legs, nearly toppling off his crate. Scars striped both of his calves. “Killer door shut on my legs.”
Greyson squirmed but immediately felt guilty for it. Then the others laughed.
“Elevator,” Windsor noted. “Had to push it open for him”
Grimes let out a howl and covered his ears. “Don’t say that!”
When Greyson gave Grimes a look, Windsor leaned in to explain. “Ever since, he doesn’t like pushing.”
“Pushing?”
“Yeah. Pushing. Just in general.”
Odd.
Beep poked Greyson’s forehead. “Got any more scars?”
Greyson peeked at Ankeny and Drake, who were still deep in conversation. He wished his goggles could read lips. He’d need to suggest that to Forge for the next software update. Until then, maybe the scars would bring him credibility. He showed her the ones on his legs first.
Train wreck. Sinking cruise.
Then his arms. Jumping on a moving train. Bad parachute landing. Broken windshield.
He removed a glove. “Bullet,” he said. Then he pulled down his collar. Beep leaned over to see down his shirt. “Another bullet.”
The kids were speechless. Windsor’s eyes were discs and he held back an ecstatic laugh. Beep’s look was one of disbelief and her finger reached to poke at the scar on his shoulder.
“It’s nice to meet you, Greyson,” Drake interjected, standing up and swinging his guitar on its sling behind his back. He nodded at Ankeny once more before turning back to Greyson. “Let me talk to you a bit.”
“Greyson?” Windsor asked, staring at him. “Greyson Gray?”
Drake cut him off, “Hold on.”
“I knew it! It was the hat, man,” Windsor noted.
Greyson pulled his goggles down, letting them fall to his gaiter.
“It is you,” Beep whispered, peering at his eyes. “So green.”
“I’m sure we all have questions for him,” Drake said, “but y’all stay here ‘til I get back. We’ll be back ‘fore long.”
Drake waved him up and Greyson followed, circling outside the group. Windsor and the rest watched him leave, whispering his name.
He ignored their looks, called Kit, and caught up to Drake. They shook hands, and his bracelets shook against one another.
“This way.” They turned and walked side by side down the middle of the alley and turned on Main Street. Immediately he was confronted with uneasiness, as if he were being led to the principal’s office.
But Drake didn’t seem in the punishment mood. He was chipper, showing him the tent-city, giving him a brief tour.
{We’re with you. Hear him out.}
“Just a sec,” Drake said, pausing to speak with a woman outside her tent, hushed and serious. When he joined Greyson again, he raised his eyebrows. “You picked a rotten time to come. This is our last night here. Becker’s out of options. He’s tried a couple times to kick us out already. But this time he’s invited Merks.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked, following Drake through the park toward a wider street.
“We’ll march tomorrow. Try to hold Pioneer Plaza. Then you’ll see the rest of us.”
“The rest of you?”
“This is just overflow. The main group’s by City Hall. We make the loyalists look pathetic in comparison.”
They made their way to the corner of the far sidewalk and stopped at the metal barricade overlooking Griffith Street toward Reunion Tower, a gigantic glowing ball atop a thin tower. There was another barricade on the other side of the street; two men leaned against it, watching them and whispering to each other.
Drake pointed diagonally to another park, where, across six lanes and two metal barricades, tents sprouted amongst more firelight. “That’s one of the loyalist camps. We don’t cross Griffith. Bad things happen when we do, and vice versa. The other side of Griffith belongs to them.”
Greyson nodded and lowered his goggles when Drake turned to him.
“I assume you wanted to come here, and not there?” Drake asked. “You didn’t get lost?”
He shook his head. “I’m in the right place.”
“I know who you are, dude. We all do.”
Greyson’s hand touched his slingshot’s grip. He didn’t know how this would go down. Would he attack him, yell for the guards…or something else? If Drake attacked, Greyson would have to surrender before taking any damage. Or should he defend himself before surrendering? Whatever it took to be captured instead of killed.
“We saw the video. We know you hate Pluribus. And Pluribus wants the ARC to secede – just like we do. Just like I do. That’s what we have in common with Pluribus.”
He waited, his fingers on the slingshot.
“But that’s all we have in common.”
The tension left his grip.
“The government took my parents away because of Pluribus. A Plurb bomb left Beep with scars. The nuke was Pluribus. We know, because we’ve had our own run-ins with them since.” He gripped the barricade twisting his fingers around it. “And your story’s become a sort of inspiration to us along the way.” Drake put his hand on Greyson’s shoulder. “The squad will be wanting you to stay with us, and they’re real excitable, you know? But Ankeny’n’I will keep them calm if you want to stay on the down-low here.”
“Thanks.” Not really…
Drake lowered his hand and began shuffling through his bracelets. “I like you, I think. And I think we have a lot in common, dude; but I’ve been wrong before. People change. Loyalties change. And I got to protect my squad.” He looked into Greyson’s eyes. “I think you’re on the right side, but if you aren’t, I’ll give you one chance to change your mind. Hop this fence and run.”
The brace-faced boy was right. They did have a lot in common.
“I’m in the right place,” Greyson said with a smile. He extended his hand.
Drake took his hand and shook. “Well, then. Welcome to the ARC side.”
Chapter 31
Five days until the election
The night was so quiet. It was a city. It was never supposed to be quiet. The only thing Greyson heard from inside the tent was the splashing of the fountains on the cement. Every once and awhile a portable toilet door would open or close, but there wasn’t any flushing. No traffic, though he thought he could hear the rumble of a Bradley’s treads and a faint metallic sound he couldn’t place. It was an odd place to sleep knowing he was surrounded by hardened protestors – some of whom may be Plurbs.
Greyson sighed, finally feeling tired enough to sleep. After retreating to the tent from his meeting with Drake’s squad, he’d snuck out and spent much of the night making himself known to the rest of the camp.
It had been Forge’s command. The theory was that a Plurb would hear his name and report it to the higher-ups who would then capture him, thus revealing their presence. In theory it was sound. In practice it just sounded stupid. “Hi, I’m Greyson Gray,” he said, knocking on their tents at one in the morning. He hadn’t gotten many more words out before being cussed out. He tried dozens of people as they left their tents, wandered to the bathroom, or played cards in their burned out business. Many hadn’t even seen the video and were unimpressed. Only a few r
ecognized him, but those that did were dead-ends, with no Pluribus sympathies.
After hours of failed interactions, they came to the conclusion that this wasn’t the right place for Plurbs. They were nearly out of options, and he was running on fumes and desperation. In the morning they’d try Pioneer Plaza. And morning was just a few hours away.
He turned his head on his backpack pillow, watching Grimes sleep. His hands were curled by his chest like he was a little gerbil, running on his wheel. An array of drone parts, wires, and tools were scattered around him like a nest. Windsor was on the other side, clutching a pillow pet to his body.
They were good kids. Windsor had fawned over him when he had returned, and they’d all talked for half an hour, exchanging adventure stories – except for any reference to Rubicon and his reason for being here. That story he replaced with a lie to protect them from the likes of StoneWater – and to also protect himself. Though he thought he could trust Drake’s squad, he never knew.
Grimes wasn’t as enamored as Windsor, but Drake told of how smart Grimes was – a genius, really. They thought he might have Asperger’s or Autism or something, which made him come off as self-centered and emotionless, but he was genius nonetheless. Beep was annoying, but in a cute kind of way. And then Ankeny. She was feisty and didn’t own a smile. Or at least she didn’t loan it out to anyone.
Kit laid his head on Greyson’s chest with a tired thump, still awake, too. They shared a look and Greyson stroked behind his ears. And then his ears perked up like a ship’s sails in full wind.
A moment later his goggles registered what the dog had sensed. Motion. A red dot outside his tent. It was visible for a moment, but then it disappeared. Or at least it stopped moving.
But Kit’s ears were still up. His head whipped to the tent door. Greyson watched the zipper, but it didn’t move. Then he remembered.
His finger toggled the infrared and suddenly his vision flashed to shades of green and black. Except for the red figure standing outside his tent.
He nearly fell backwards. The figure approached.
Someone had taken the bait. He was about to be taken.
Greyson pushed up to his butt, glancing from the boys to the door.
It reached for the door.
Greyson reached for his slingshot.
The tent’s zipper seemed to scream as it rose along the willowy tent door.
Ankeny peeked her face in, but recoiled as she found herself inches from Greyson’s loaded slingshot.
Embarrassed at her surprise, she sneered. Then she glanced at the sleeping Grimes and Windsor and motioned Greyson outside.
Thinking to himself, he made a quick decision.
He gave Kit the stay command and squeezed out the door.
Ankeny was already at the edge of the camp, waiting for him. Then she darted away.
Is that how it’s going to be?
He raced after her, whispering to himself and to Forge. “Thanks for the warning, guys.”
{My bad. Diablo has you covered.}
He scrambled to keep up with Ankeny, but she was like a fly, buzzing around, barely visible until it landed. She flew around an alley and he followed.
{Scratch that. Had you covered.}
Great.
He kept up the pursuit, darting from corner to corner. When he finally caught her, she hushed him and waited. Two helmeted soldiers meandered across a street, one smoking a cigarette, the other using his bulletproof vest’s collar as a hand rest. Their rifles hung in front of them. When they passed from view, she darted behind an abandoned car, daring him to follow. He knelt beside her only to crouch-walk to another one.
His goggles told him where they were. They were headed toward City Hall. Why? Should he follow? For how long?
Together they passed through another alley and were about to run across the street when he jerked a hand in front of her and pulled her back as a Bradley came rumbling down a side street. A few moments later its searchlight beamed down the road.
He’d seen the motion on his HUD. But he couldn’t tell her that. And he’d seen more motion than just the Bradley. There were multiple readings. But what was with the Bradley?
“We could have made it,” Ankeny muttered.
She rounded a dumpster and put her back to it, almost pouting. Greyson followed and together they listened as the Bradley turned down their street and passed their alley, its treads crackling debris on the road. A searchlight danced on the brick walls, but it was a cursory glance. But something was following it.
Clonk-clonk-clonk-clonk. Clonk-clonk-clonk-clonk.
Metal steps. Like a slow jackhammer. It was big.
Clonk-clonk-clonk-clonk. CLONK-CLONK-CLONK-CLONK!
The sound passed in the street and Greyson arched his brow at Ankeny. But she just put her finger to her mouth.
Clonk-clonk-clonk-clonk. Clonk-clonk…
Whatever it was echoed down the street, and Ankeny finally swung around the dumpster, careful to peek around every corner before she darted.
“What was that?”
“Shh!”
They progressed several more blocks before Ankeny stopped behind another dumpster. The buildings to the left and right sprawled high above them, blocking out most of the moonlight.
“Where are we going?” he huffed.
She tapped her temple and motioned at his goggles. “Infrared?”
She knows. Greyson could only give her a blank face. “What?”
Ankeny pointed to the wall next to them. “Check it. Is it clear?”
They stared each other down for a long time until he finally gave in. He’d gone this far.
“It’s clear.”
After checking all directions, she played her fingers along a crack in the wall and pulled until a girl-sized section of the wall came loose in her hands. When she removed it, Greyson saw that it was actually a board with pieces of brick attached to it.
Clever.
She set the board inside the hole in the wall and crawled inside. Watching behind them, Greyson followed her inside, replacing the section of the wall himself. Finally inside, a feeling of safety descended on him. But it was short-lived.
Ankeny grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against a wall, her forearm pressed against his Adam’s apple from one side, a knife’s tip tickling his neck from the other.
“What are you doing here?”
“Following you. Which was a bad idea, I admit,” he said, squirming under her grip. The blade pricked his flesh.
“No. Why are you here? In Dallas?”
{Stick to story.}
“I told you. To protest. Show Becker that Texas wants to leave. You?”
Her forearm pressed harder and he choked. “You lie. Who gave you the goggles?”
“Put the knife down and I’ll tell you,” he squeaked.
In a flash she had shoved away, backing against the room’s other wall in a ready stance, the knife still pointed his way. “Tell me.”
{Diablo is ten seconds out if needed.}
“I don’t think you’re going to kill me,” he said for Forge’s benefit. Diablo barging in and killing her would not be his preferred ending.
“Pluribus kills anyone who gets in the way,” she warned.
Maybe I was wrong. She is a Plurb. A psychotic Plurb.
“Who gave you the goggles?”
“I stole them outta some StoneWater goon’s pack,” he said, remembering the backstory.
Her glare flinched and softened. “Give them to me.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, taking them off. “Let’s just talk without the knife. Are you a Plurb?”
“If I am, what would you do?”
He swallowed hard. If it were true, he’d like to hurt her, but he would need her. She could take him to their leader. If she weren’t a Plurb, would she turn him in to ARC officials? Or the government?
Either way, he had to stick to his s
tory. “I’d kill you.”
Her glare was intense, but she gave nothing away. “Give me the goggles. Prove you’re no Plurb.”
“So you’re not a Plurb?”
Her eyes flicked to the left and his HUD analyzed her every moment.
“Of course not,” she said at last.
Deception 15%.
She wasn’t a Plurb. Probably. Disappointed, Greyson realized that it wasn’t time to get captured yet.
“Give them to me!” she demanded again.
Have it your way.
He threw her the goggles and lunged.
He had been confident. He had been sure he had caught her off guard.
But the next thing he knew she had grabbed his elbow, spun him over her shoulder and planted him on his back, knocking the air from him in a loud smack. He realized what she had done as he winced, glancing at her grip on his elbow as she pressed it near its snapping point in the direction it wasn’t supposed to go. When he tried to struggle, she pressed harder, forcing his submission.
Who is this ninja?
“I’m here to kill Plurbs, okay?” he said between winces.
The skeptic watched him with a sneer.
“I know they’re here. But I don’t know who. I can’t trust anyone.”
Ankeny puffed up and looked down the hall. She whistled.
As soon as she released him, he scrambled free, snatched his goggles, and retreated to a wall, rubbing his elbow, embarrassed.
“Neither can we,” came a voice down the hall.
Greyson shot his gaze toward the dark hallway where a figure emerged.
It was Drake.
His gait was almost a swagger, his guitar still behind his back. He shrugged with a smile as he came into the light. “We have trouble trusting people, too. Sorry for the test, dude.”
His head still swimming, Greyson fit the goggles back over his eyes. “I’m guessing I passed the test?”
Drake gave him a nod. “We were betrayed a few months back. Someone close to me. I trusted him with my life.” Though his permanent smile was still present, it was veiled. “You passed. But our trust is harder to come by these days.”
