by T. K. Malone
Teah couldn’t believe her eyes. How could she be out of the city? Her focus seemed to blur.
“It can’t be. I spoke with May…”
“Do you remember going up?”
“Up?”
“Well, if you were on the old viewing balcony, that’s a lot of stairs. There ain’t no power at the Bay View.”
“I was in an elevator…”
“Angel’s got power, got them black sun cells on its roof.”
Teah grabbed her head, her short hair. She gripped it hard, pulling at it, feeling the pain. Jevans, it had to be Jevans, he must have drugged her. “So they moved me about?” she muttered, still staring at her feet.
“I’m sorry, ma’am?”
“If I was at the Angel Bay, and I was looking out over the city from The Bay View, I must have been moved around.”
“I guess.”
She sat up, looking straight at him. “How?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“How was I ferried around? Carnies have no control outside the city.”
“No. Just the preppers up Morton Valley, the Bikers from Christmas. Carnies ain’t got much sway out here. Must have had a pass from the bikers, from Nathan Grimes.”
From Zac’s club, Teah whispered to herself.
“Where are we going?”
“Taking you back to our base, Ma’am. Debrief and then you’re home free.”
“Debrief?”
“Rules is rules, even for us bunch of misfits.”
She sat back, resting her head against the jeep’s side. Debrief? Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise—some time to sort out her muddled thoughts. Somewhere where she could think without being in constant fear, somewhere where she wouldn’t have people barking in her ear, offering opinions, making judgments. Somewhere she wouldn’t be tortured.
“Where are you based?” she asked.
“Just up from Morton Valley, the base is by the new bunker they’re building.”
“Bunker?”
The soldier shrugged. “They call it Project Firebird.”
“Commander Croft,” the man said, looking up from his desk. “Did the medic check you out all right?”
“Yes.”
“And?” he rose, rounded his desk and pulled a seat over for her.
“I’m fine,” Teah said, meekly, and she sat.
Croft returned behind his desk and sat back down. “Strange turn of events. So, they didn’t harm you at all?”
Teah hesitated. She’d look foolish if she told the truth. Since Jevans had replaced the AI, her healing had accelerated again. “A bit, to start. I heal fast.”
“Well,” Croft said, “we’ll have you back in The Black City before you know it.”
“Why did you bring me here at all?”
“Why?” He looked at her, quizzically. “To make sure you are who you are. To make sure you weren’t some kind of Trojan horse. Couldn’t have us helping the carnies onto The Grid or what not.”
“And am I?”
Croft looked at her. “You certainly don’t look like one, talk like one, and you have that jerk to your walk that comes from training, so yes, you are who you are. Besides, if you were a plant, they’d have kicked you to hell and back, roughed you up, split your cheek—you know—make it look like you had a hard time.”
Teah nearly choked, but stifled it. “I guess. Tell me, do I have to go back straight away?” A confused look glossed Croft’s expression.
“You want to delay going home?”
“It’s complicated. I need to work out a few things. Tell me, how did you know I was being moved?”
“Me? I didn’t have a clue. The men that rescued you, they intercepted a transmission, made a call and confirmed.”
“A call?”
“Yes, a call to your HQ. Told them they had intercepted specific information about a hostage. A stiff, a woman. Well, they verified the information, and my men went in. From what I gather, it was a fairly routine extraction—just three dead.”
“Have you had a call to find out how it went?”
Croft scratched his chin. “No, no I haven’t.”
“Don’t you find that odd?”
Teah showered, hot water, soap, and Croft even supplied her some fatigues. She kept her canvas laced-up boots; somehow she wanted reminding of everything that had happened. And she wanted to breathe; above all she wanted to breathe. Luckily, the rest of the stalls were empty, the morning clearly beginning earlier for the rest of the camp.
She knew, of course, the role of The State Defense Force. It was to keep the peace outside the cities, though in truth, it had little budget to be effective. If anything, it was the standing joke of all the enforcement services. The federal army got the lion’s share of national funding, all the cities levied for that. The Black City PD was, naturally, financed by its host, as was the SDF, except the city didn’t care about the outside, so the stiffs got the largest chunk of that money. Yet Croft appeared quite competent, quite together, assured.
He’d agreed to a couple of days respite, and as far as she knew, he’d had no calls demanding her return. The night had passed, and she had the day to gather her thoughts, and here was a place to think. She’d never known such silence. In The Black City there was never such a luxury. The hum of the drones was a constant.
She knew she had to go back—what other choice was there? She would come clean about her baby. They couldn’t murder the child, couldn’t force her to terminate it. Then just as that thought popped into her head, she also wondered if she really wanted the baby. Putting her hand on her belly, she instantly knew that answer. What was the worst that could happen? Told to leave? Told to move off-grid. Maybe live with Zac?
Or was May right? Had Zac just used her?
Hell, she thought, a few hours more and she’d find out. That was certain. That was sure. Pulling on her fatigues, lacing up her boots, she left the wash quarters. Outside, Teah took a long breath. The air was different out here, out in the country. It had a taste to it. Nothing she could pinpoint exactly, no overbearing taints. Was it just freshness? Was it that? Or was it that the smell of The Black City was absent?
Most gridders didn’t stray from its embrace; most had never smelled the derelict odor of the outskirts, of the varying defunct sectors surrounding them. Even fewer had experienced revulsion at the stench of the toxic wastelands which encompassed that. Corruption, she decided, that was what the city smelled like, whatever part you were in.
The showers were housed in a converted shipping container, one of few dozen that made up the camp, along with a number of tents and a couple of buildings that looked like they’d long lost their original function. Over the containers, a forested valley reared almost instantly, just a service road between the containers and the start of its mighty redwoods. She’d never seen one of the magnificent trees up close before, only as a green brushstroke on a faraway horizon. They made her feel small, insignificant. Across from them, the valley’s other side was stark by contrast. A sheer-gray rock face dominated, tapering upward, scree and scraggy trees at its base.
It was there that Project Firebird was obviously being built. A vast tunnel had been hollowed out of the cliff, a service road, busy with truck after truck, snaking up to it.
“End of the world,” a voice said. Teah turned to see a soldier, little more than a boy, standing near her. “You Teah?”
“Yeah.”
“Sticks,” he said. “I’m Sticks. Croft’s asked me to stay close to you.”
“Why?” she asked, but knew the reason.
He shrugged. “Guess you don’t know your way around. Say, you hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t say much, do you? Don’t matter, I can talk fer both of us. We can eat in the mess, but the grub’s much better up there.” He pointed up at the tunnel. “Contractors, get fed better than the army.”
“Then why don’t everyone eat up there?” Teah asked, her voice falling in with his country
lilt.
Sticks tapped his temple. “'Cause they can’t, no credits. I, on the other hand, have credits. You see, they like a smoke—the contractors, and I know where to get the best damn smokes in The Free Fucking World.”
Teah shrugged. “I could eat.”
Sticks grinned, and he had an infectious smile. “Then, let’s get hauling up that there slope.”
He turned and she fell in beside him.
“Say Sticks—”
“Ma’am?”
“Teah.”
“Teah?”
“You wouldn’t have a spare one of those smokes, would you?”
Chapter Seven
“Funny thing,” Sticks said, his fork sweeping around to encompass the room. “Not one of these folks in here is from Morton, Aldertown, Sendro or Christmas. Not one comes from within a hundred miles of this place.”
The workers' mess was half full. Half full of grumbling men with arms like tree trunks, women whose chiseled faces told of a life of hard toil, and a smattering of kids that looked dirty, downcast, but determined to fit in with their elders. It was a grim place, but honest, she decided.
“Why?” Teah asked.
Sticks pointed his fork at her, his expression one of victory. “Now, I’m glad you asked me that,” and then his head went down as he scooped up another forkful of mash. He looked up, chewing. “Contracted in. When I was in the Feds, we were fightin’ in some place—Egypt? There a place called that?”
Teah shrugged.
“Anyways,” Sticks carried on. “In Egypt, or whatever it’s called, they got these pointed things, massive—made of stone, called pyramids. Rumor is, they was built like this.”
“Pointed?” Teah asked, a grin curling her lips. She was warming to the soldier fast.
“Na, not pointed. Built with folk who didn’t live near.” He looked up at the mess’s canvas roof. “Or did they kill ‘em? Something like that.”
“So you’re saying,” Teah pointed her own fork. “You’re saying that whoever’s building this place doesn’t want anyone local to know what it’s like inside.”
Sticks smiled, his freckly face lighting up. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“And you’ve fought overseas?”
He nodded.
“How…? If you don’t mind me asking: how old are you?”
Sticks leant in, looking sideways to check if anyone was listening. “’Tween you ‘n me? Sixteen.”
“Six—”
“—Shush. Was thrown outta the Feds for being underage.”
“What age did you join them?”
He leaned further in. “Thirteen. I looked older.”
Teah highly doubted it; he still looked like a child to her. “So you got thrown out?”
“Yep, ‘n bounced to the SDF. Would say it was part of a master plan, but it weren’t. Fancied seeing the world. Still, suppose you don’t see much, mostly recon ‘n killin’ anyhow.” He scraped his plate clean. “You done much killin’?”
“Me?”
“Don’t see anyone else sittin’ here.”
“Some.”
He nodded, not taking his eyes off her. “That why they torture you?”
Fear raced through her. She glanced straight at him, then away, taking in the room; the sole exit, the route to it, likely hurdles, likely enemies. Sticks’ hand reached out and grasped hers.
“Hey,” he said. “I ain’t prying—ain’t no snitch. If you don’t wanna talk about it, don’t.”
“How did you know?” she stammered.
“Croft told me to look out for it—for the signs. You got ‘em all. You’re always looking about like a rattled rabbit. You ain’t settled once since we’ve sat down. All signs, but mostly coz your eyes are hollow, faraway and hollow.”
She looked down at her plate, somehow ashamed. “They just wanted info on someone I knew.”
“Knew? Is he dead?”
“Why do you think it’s a he?”
Sticks shrugged. “You was shoutin’ a name all last night… Zac? Is it Zac?”
“He ain’t dead.” Teah realized her eyes were tearing up. “Not dead, dead, but I gotta make up my mind if he’s dead to me.”
Sticks nodded, but said nothing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes, lighting one and passing it to her. She took it, taking a long draw. “It’s complicated,” she whispered.
He tapped the cigarette pack on the table. “You ever been in the forest?”
“No.”
“Everyone should. Whether you’re city, country—the redwoods, man, they gotta be seen to be understood.” He fixed his eyes on her. “I’ve seen some gruesome things, real gruesome. Legs blown off by IEDs, a woman with a hole where her stomach shoulda been—she didn’t last more than a few seconds, but fear— fear’s the worst thing. Down right pitiful it is, to see someone crippled by it. Fear, Teah, it’ll kill you every time. You let that fear control you, you might as well have a fuckin’ hole in ya. Seen a man, the middle of a firefight, just dissolve with it, trembling and shaking like he needed the shine.”
“What happened to him?”
It was Sticks turn to look down at his plate, and then he slowly raised his head, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Got shot full holes and done a little dance ‘fore he dropped.” He smiled, sat back and let his words linger in the air between them. “You should never expect a happy endin’.”
Teah took another long puff of her smoke. “Damn right,” and she returned his grin.
“Shall we?” he asked.
“What?”
“Go see the trees. Way I figure, you might not get to see ‘em again.”
“Where are you from?” Teah asked, as she sat back against one of the vast, surging trunks.
“Maddison,” Sticks replied, sitting next to her.
“How far away is it?”
“From here? Haven’t a clue. Ne’er looked it up, mostly because it doesn’t matter—might as well be in Egypt.”
“But you’re country, so you’ve got parents, family.”
Sticks fidgeted around as though he was uncomfortable talking about it. “Ma ‘n pa never cared for me—said I had wanderlust. Bet they was over the moon when I got ‘napped.”
“’Napped?”
“’Napped,” he confirmed. “When the Feds come ‘round to the towns ‘n shovel up all the kids and toss ‘em in the truck—‘napped. You think anyone joins The Free World army on purpose?”
“So, when they found out you were too young, why didn’t they send you back?”
Sticks held his hand out and rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “Money,” he said, emphatically. “By the time they rattled me, I was a year trained and a few months of a tour under my belt. Ain’t no way they were going to give up that.”
“So they bounced you back here?”
He shook his head. “Not at first—they tried to kill me first off—get the most of my trainin’. Sent me on loads of missions—always point. Trouble was, I didn’t die.”
“So they shipped you back?”
“Sort of—insubordination. I got fed up with being tracer-fodder. Told them what’s what. Put me on the next transporter home. Mighty pissed, they were, but I told ‘em, ‘Sticks don’t break’—I told ‘em that over ‘n over.”
“Maybe they won’t break me…” Teah’s voice trailed off as she took in the trees, the forest, the vastness of what surrounded her.
There was something about the forest, its energy appeared to be infusing her with latent power, with hope. She stared at its distant canopy as Sticks’ words hit home. Thirteen, and in some foreign country, fighting the ever-enduring war, and he still had the cajones to get his way, to survive, to weather.
“They tied me up,” she said. “Tied me and went to work—a man named Sumner. A man who, if all things had been equal, I wouldn’t have wasted my time punching—just a stare would have done it. But, he had all the power, Sticks, all the power. Then they fixed me up. Be
at me up, fixed me up and tore me back down. A cell, a doctor, a torturer—they had it all.”
Sticks was silent for a moment, before he pulled out his smokes again. “What do you want me to say? Tell you that you had even more power ‘cause you survived? Tell you it’s over ‘n everything’s gonna be alright? Tell you it’ll make you stronger? ‘Cause it probably won’t do any of that. Probably make you a bit hard to get on with, a bit of a bitch—that sort of thing. How long?”
“How long?”
“Tortured, how long? And not just the blades ‘n burns, or whatever he did—the other bits too, the bits that soften you up.”
“Like the beatings?”
Sticks shrugged. “And the good guy—there’s always a good guy.”
“Woman.”
“That’ll work. So, how long?”
“Not overly sure,” Teah said, taking another smoke. “A few days—no windows, no clocks, no way of knowing.”
Sticks kicked at a bit of loose bark, then spun around to face her. “Something’s up,” he said, his expression grim. “I’ve been among country folk, hell, I was one, and I know ‘em. Carnies? You call the others carnies don’t you?”
“Yeah, carnies don’t live on The Grid.”
“But still live in the city—in the shit bit.”
Teah blurted a laugh. “Yeah, the shit bit—I might steal that.”
“More than welcome to. What I’m getting at; country folk, they ain’t so organized. Only clock they got usually rises in the morning and sets at night, only timetable is what they fancy doin’. My guess is carnies are much the same—just trying to survive. What you’re talking about, that ain’t survival, that’s a resistance. Tell me, the carnies suddenly become a load of freedom fighters with a headquarters and a prison, doctor and God only knows what else you encountered?”
“No—” but Teah didn’t finish. What he was saying thudded home. Apart from running booze, smokes, pills and powders, the carnies just about survived. Was there some form of resistance to Charm’s governance, or the rule of Oster Prime? The thought was too far-fetched to even consider. Sticks was right, a few disorganized gangs—if anything, Zac’s club was the slickest—could not have done what May, Roy and the rest had. Plus, now she thought of it, even the complex was off. Electricity was sporadic at best in the city’s outskirts. Their hospitals were rooms merely less derelict than most others, but nowhere near what she’d recently seen. Their hierarchy—the leaders, were usually holed up in run down blocks of flats.
