Shatter City

by Scott Westerfeld

  Every fiber of me wants to attack, or to let her kill me. But being a prisoner in my father’s house has taught me one thing most of all: patience.

  Tomorrow will come.

  “Okay,” I say in Rafi’s voice. “I’ll be the perfect daughter.”

  Dona lets out a low laugh, like someone having the happiest day of their life. Like someone who’s finally grasped all the power they’ve ever wanted.

  Like someone who doesn’t know the rebels are on their way.

  The weather sours the next morning.

  The sky is a gunmetal lid on the world. It’s going to rain, and the collar around my neck feels like iron.

  Getting ready for this appearance feels like when I was a littlie—those first times in front of a crowd, posing as my older sister. The tight muscles in my arms. The pinpoint fires burning in my stomach.

  Dona knows I’m Frey. She’ll never let me leave this place.

  This rescue attempt today is my only hope.

  For once, I know exactly what to wear. The problem is, Rafi wouldn’t deign to own body armor, and my publicity team won’t let me dress myself. They’ve color-coordinated the whole event, and I don’t have the energy to argue with them. I have to save my strength.

  I wonder how the rebels will come in. From the air? Hidden in camo suits? Disguised as randoms in the crowd?

  My staff has decided to outfit me in scarlet and fiddly laced sleeves. Easy to spot in a crowd—at least my own guards won’t shoot me by accident. That’s a plus.

  My objective today is for exactly one person to get hurt, and it’s not me.

  I put on a training singlet and shorts under the scarlet dress. Ignoring the shoes they’ve chosen for me, I put on ballet slippers with grippy soles.

  My pockets stay empty. The dust is working again, and Dona will be watching closer than ever. I’ll have to grab a weapon from a guard at the last second.

  My own plan is still the best one—wait till my wedding day and end this all in one stroke. It’s the only lasting solution to the problem of my father. But the rebels may not give me a choice.

  And, of course, I have another problem now, which makes today’s rescue attempt useful.

  In all the confusion, Dona Oliver is going to have an accident.

  “You look stunning,” she says an hour later. “The crowd will love you.”

  “They always do.”

  “Of course, Rafi.”

  Dona smiles to make sure that I noticed—she called me Rafi instead of Rafia. A little reminder of the power she holds.

  We’re standing on the hoverpad atop my father’s tower, my hair whipping free in a stiff breeze that smells like pine needles and rain. A limo is idling, waiting to carry us to the event.

  Today’s schedule trembles in an airscreen in front of me, a second-by-second plan for the event. Pretending to ignore it, I memorize every detail.

  “Where’s Col? Why am I always waiting for him?”

  Dona doesn’t have to look at the schedule. “Three minutes.”

  “Time to straighten these brain-missing sleeves, I guess.” But when Maltia steps forward, I wave her off. “You do it, Dona.”

  Dona’s smile goes tight. But she can’t disobey me in front of my own security detail. As promised, a dozen guards are with us. Enough to need their own hovercar.

  I stretch my hands out, palms up. Dona flicks her scarf over her shoulder and starts to work, tidying the mesh of lace along my arms. Let her think I’m being petty in defeat—it will keep her distracted till the excitement begins.

  Her assistant looks on, a little confused. I wonder if Dona has told anybody else my secret. Not that it matters—once she’s dead, no one will dare tell my father that they helped hide the truth from him.

  Staring out at the city, I can almost see the Bossier Fountain, where today’s event is taking place. In the center of Shreve, its array of a thousand sprayers creates a watery globe spinning slowly on its axis. The fountain shows the world that my father can waste resources with all the arrogance of the Rusties.

  As Dona finishes my sleeves, Col and his guards emerge from the elevator. He squints in the daylight, looking out at the city below us.

  “Quite a view.”

  I shrug, trying not to look at his bomb collar. “Daddy likes looking down on things.”

  “Beautiful.” Col takes my hand. “As long as you don’t fall.”

  I search his eyes—suddenly uncertain whether this rescue attempt is really happening, or if I’m imagining it all. It seems impossible that Col could’ve stayed in touch with the rebels all this time.

  But Yandre risked everything to be here, and both of them said dress to move.

  Col’s face reveals nothing. He straightens his clothes, a dutiful fiancé on his way to a bash. They’ve put him in bright colors, easy to see from the back of the crowd—a mint-green shirt, a rose jacket. The two of us are like candy in our wrappers.

  “Ready for takeoff,” Dona calls.

  Inside the limo, Col and I share a look—this car is identical to the limo his little brother used to find us in the first days of the war.

  I miss those weeks of danger and freedom. Me, Col, and a handful of Victorian soldiers out in the wild. No bomb collars. No dust listening as we shared our secrets. No reason to measure our words. The thrill that ran through me every time he said my real name.

  Maybe it’s worth running away with him today, whether I kill my father or not. Col and me free together, and my sister with us at last.

  But Dona has that remote, and her warnings from last night ring in my ears.

  I can set Col Palafox’s nerves on fire so they can’t ever be turned off.

  The roof drops out from under us, and we make a sweeping turn out over the void. The limo’s right-side windows fill with grass and gardens, the left side with gray sky.

  An escort of military hovercraft drops into formation around us. Taking a groundcar into town would be safer, but my father has to show he isn’t afraid of an ambush. Besides, arrivals from above are always more dramatic.

  I watch Col closely, wondering if the rebels are going to hit us here in midair. He smiles blandly back at me.

  Exactly four minutes later, we’re descending, the towers of Shreve slicing the sky around us. We drop straight through the fountain, the limo’s windows blurring with condensation.

  I can hear the crowd now, a dull roar beneath the hum of our lifting fans. A prickle of nerves hits me again—all those staring eyes. Pretending to be Rafi was easier back when no one knew there were two of us. No one was looking for a slipup back then. But these days, anyone with a feed can point out my mistakes.

  My hand aches for a pulse knife. The guard next to me has a sidearm, a shock wand, and a few stun grenades for crowd control.

  The limo lands softly, music building around us. The bass kicks hard and fast, designed to push heartbeats, to make the crowd roar.

  The people of Shreve really do love my sister—and me too, I guess. Maybe they love us more than ever, now that they know what our father did to us.

  But what if Dona is right? What if my staying here was the only thing that stopped the revolution?

  They should be jeering me.

  Col sees my expression and takes my hand as the limo doors swing open. We look out into the glare, the great sphere of Bossier Fountain overhead, spotlights carving a hundred rainbows in the spray. The spectators are phantasms behind walls of mist. A resistance field sparkles overhead, keeping us dry. Our bodyguards fall into a protective ring.

  “You ready?” Col asks.

  I hesitate a moment, looking into his eyes. I’m used to making the plans, worrying over every detail. He’s asking me to leap into darkness.

  With him.

  “Of course,” I say.

  We step from the car.

  The music builds to a climax, and all at once the sprayers shut off. The watery globe falls like a curtain with cut strings, splashing down around us as the music
ends.

  The air clears—everyone can see me and Col at last, and we can see them. Twenty thousand people, all given time off from work and school. All provided with extra rations in colored packages that match our outfits. All prepped by meticulously crafted feed specials about how Col and I fell in love.

  They cheer for us as the fireworks begin.

  Col leans closer. “So … what are we supposed to do here, exactly?”

  “This is it, pretty much,” I say through my smile. “Keep waving.”

  This is my father’s favorite kind of rally. The schedule listed no speeches, no announcements. Just music and giveaways and pyrotechnics. An ecstatic display of nothingness.

  “Well, then,” Col says. “We might as well give them something to cheer about.”

  “What do you—” Before I can finish, his arms are around me, and he’s looking straight into my eyes.

  The roar of the crowd redoubles.

  For weeks, I’ve wanted to kiss him this way, without reservation, my whole body screaming for it every time we’ve been together. But here, in front of a hundred hovercams? It feels like all my lies will tumble into the open if our lips meet.

  “Col. Is this a good idea?”

  “It’s perfect,” he whispers in my ear. “And it’s the signal. Be ready to hold your breath.”

  I don’t stop him. His lips are on mine, pressure and softness, melting and tangling. Our breath hot in our mouths, the thrum of my blood matching the roar of the crowd.

  The fountain hisses back to life, and as we pull apart, I see a fluttering fill the air—countless white butterflies.

  Dona, over by the limo, is shouting into her wrist.

  Butterflies weren’t on the schedule.

  A cool spray settles on us from above. The water smells sweet and heavy, like desert flowers after a hard rain. My head is spinning, not only from being in Col’s arms …

  “Don’t breathe.”

  The mist isn’t just water. I hold my breath.

  A series of small explosions rattles the air—sharper than fireworks.

  The rebel attack has begun.

  Col catches me when I stagger.

  My lungs are screaming for air, and darkness tinges the edges of my vision. I’m still dizzy—half from the knockout mist, half from holding my breath.

  Suddenly the white butterflies are swarming us, and Col grabs one from the air. He shoves it onto my face—its wings wrap around my mouth and nose.

  “Breathe!” he gasps, snatching at another butterfly.

  When I suck in air, the heavy smell is gone. The world steadies, and I feel warm slivers of smart plastic securing the mask to my head.

  Half my bodyguards are on the ground, the rebreathers in their helmets activating too late. Dona, her scarf over her mouth, is crawling toward the armored limo.

  I run at her, trying to look like a panicking Rafi. If this all goes wrong, Security will dissect everything that happens here. Even if the rebels have crashed the surveillance dust, there are still my guards’ bodycams and the limo’s sensors.

  I see Dona pull something from her pocket …

  No.

  My foot kicks at her hand as I pass, sending the remote flying into the open limo doors.

  I follow, scrambling for it on my hands and knees.

  My fingers close on the remote. It feels like nothing, a wafer of plastic and nanocircuits. It crumbles in my hand.

  Dona’s flat on the ground just short of the limo, succumbed to the gas now. I need to kill her while I can and hope the attackers have crashed the dust. If we’re caught again, they can’t know I’m Frey.

  The door swings down across my view.

  “Limo, open up!” I shout through the mask.

  “Emergency protocol,” it says. “You will be taken to a safe—”

  “Override!” I start kicking at the window, wishing I was in boots instead of ballet slippers. “Let a guard in!”

  The limo hesitates, probably asking Security for clarification. But twenty thousand people are panicking outside, and rebel hoverboards dot the sky. With Dona unconscious, my father’s staff is overwhelmed.

  And they have no idea how dangerous I am.

  “Order accepted,” the limo says.

  The door swings open. A guard waits outside, ready to help.

  I grab her arm and pull hard, banging her helmet askew against the doorframe. I hold her till the gas crumples her in my arms, then tear her bodycam free and smash it. I unholster her sidearm and belt, push her out.

  Col steps over her, the white butterfly clasped across his nose and mouth.

  Maybe if I destroy the limo’s AI, what I’m about to do will be erased.

  I point the gun at Dona’s head.

  “What are you doing?” Col asks.

  I shake my head. “She knows who I am.”

  “That won’t matter once we’re gone!”

  “But I had a plan. To wait till the wedding and—”

  “Frey,” he says.

  My name freezes me, and he steps in front of the barrel of my gun.

  “Our friends are here, Frey. We can leave now.”

  “But my father has to die! He’s going after another city soon! We’ll never be safe while he’s alive!”

  I’m screaming, but the voice in my ears doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds like Rafi’s—incandescent rage, pure and imperious. Nothing but the best plan, her plan, absolute and final.

  Something shifts inside me. I can run away and be with Col, right now.

  I can be Frey again.

  Most of my bodyguards have managed to get their rebreathers in. They ring the limo, facing outward, sidearms lowered at the roiling crowd. The rebels are keeping their distance—no one’s shooting yet.

  Col and I have to make the next move.

  “Okay,” I say. “What’s next?”

  “They couldn’t tell me much. I guess we improvise.”

  “Improvise?” As I start swearing at brain-missing rebels, a bodyguard turns to look at me, staring at the pistol in my hand. I shoot him in the knee and pull Col inside.

  “Limo, get us out of here.”

  This time there’s no argument. The door swings closed again, and we lurch into the gray sky.

  Both of us are still wearing collars.

  “Going to top speed,” the limo says. “We’ll reach the tower in three minutes.”

  I’m tired of arguing with this limo. I grab the shock wand from the ejected guard’s belt, climb into the front seat of the limo, and thrust the wand into the AI casing.

  Sparks fly and smoke fills the cabin. We drop sickeningly.

  “Whoa!” Col says. “What are you—”

  “Improvising!” I grab for the flight stick.

  Some safety measure in the limo’s lizard brain stops us from hitting the ground. But the stick isn’t responding yet.

  Our military escort appears again, dropping into place around us, four big hovercraft bristling with weapons. They still think we need guarding from this rebel attack.

  A slender white strand arcs through the air—rebel antiaircraft fire. It strikes the escort in front of us. Tendrils of smart plastic spread out, wrapping around the car until they tangle one of its lifting fans. The spinning blades jam, then shatter in a burst of smoke, sending fragments in all directions.

  With a deafening smack, the limo’s bulletproof front window is spiderwebbed with cracks.

  The rebels are shooting at our escorts—we have to give them room.

  The flight stick in my hand finally starts working. Banking hard, I try to slip past the hovercar to our right. We collide with a glancing blow—the limo slews, losing more altitude.

  The spire of a building passes beneath us. A few spindly antennae shatter in our wake.

  Col climbs into the front seat beside me. “The rebels are in the north, I think.”

  “You think?”

  He shrugs. “They were using Victorian hostage code, key words hidden in Rafi’s
speeches. But I only caught snatches of them.”

  “Clever.” I wrestle the limo level again, wondering if Rafi put any messages in there for me too. “I’ll head north, draw these escorts into the antiaircraft.”

  “Won’t they shoot us if we make a run for it?”

  “Not if they still think I’m the first daughter.” I point at the cracked front window. “It’ll look like our flight controls are damaged.”

  Col glances at the smoking AI. “They are.”

  “Yeah, but not like this.” I pull the flight stick hard to the left and set a weaving, shaky course northward.

  The three remaining escorts follow, staying in a protective formation around us. They must be wondering why the limo AI and comms are out.

  My fingers go to the bomb collar at my throat.

  “Col, I’m not sure what happens when we leave city limits. These collars might be programmed to stop us.”

  “It’ll be okay. Yandre has a key ready.”

  It takes me a moment to figure it out. “At the party?”

  “That dress was one big scanner. We just have to get to them.”

  Of course—that tingle I felt when Yandre stood close to me. And when the two of them danced, they were scanning Col’s collar.

  Another white tendril streaks past the front window. A miss—I can’t even tell who the rebels were aiming at.

  “Are they trying to hit us?”

  “Who knows?” Col crawls into the back again. “I’ll look for bungee jackets.”

  Great. The rebels have already shot me down once. I thought being on their side would keep it from happening again.

  A crunch rattles through the limo, sending us swerving.

  One of our escorts looms in the side window. It’s nudging us back toward my father’s tower. The escorts are bigger than us, with heavy armor and massive engines.

  Half the Shreve fleet must be in the air by now. For a moment, I wonder if the rebels really have a plan. Or was this all just to make my father look weak?

  I have to believe that Yandre wouldn’t put us in danger without a way to get us out. And my sister was part of it too.