Render

by K A Riley

  “I’m okay,” I tell him. “Actually, it feels good to stand up for a second. How long was I out?”

  Brohn pushes some tools aside and hops up onto the work bench. “It took us twenty minutes or so just to get back out of town. Another twenty or thirty to make our way back to the garage. Then you were out for another hour or so after we tried to revive you.”

  “Revive me?”

  “Cardyn thought you were in some kind of coma. Maybe sleep-walking or something.”

  “You say I was unconscious…or whatever I was…for another hour?”

  “About. But you were breathing just fine. Normal pulse. You even had this cherubic little smile. Card said you looked like you were keeping a happy secret.”

  “I don’t think I’m the one with the secret.”

  “You mean Render, right?”

  “He can’t initiate our connection. I mean, not like that. I never thought he could, at least.”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and say that yes, I think he can. Not only that, I think maybe he’s even more psychic than we thought.”

  I stare at Brohn for a second, trying to determine if he’s teasing me. But he looks as serious as I’ve ever seen him. He pushes aside some more tools and pats the workbench, inviting me to join him. Overtaken by another wave of confusion, I do as he suggests.

  Brohn stares over to where the others are fiddling and banging around with the truck.

  “So listen, I’ve been thinking about something.”

  For a moment I wonder if he’s talking about the mysterious hole in his shirt and welt on his back. But as he stares into my eyes, somehow I know what he’s talking about. “You’ve been thinking about the dead soldiers and the girl from from the military base where we met Vail and Roland.”

  “Actually, yes. The ones you saw.”

  “The ones Render saw,” I correct him.

  Brohn shrugs. “I mean, what if he was seeing something from the past? Or maybe even from the future? The people you say he saw could have been killed days before we got there. Or a year ago. It’s even possible they’re going to be killed in those barracks today or tomorrow, or a year from now.”

  “Render’s just a bird,” I say. “A clever one. But he’s not a fortune teller, Brohn.”

  “You also say he can’t initiate your connection, and yet, here we are. All I’m saying is that whatever you have with him seems to be evolving into something bigger.”

  Ugh. There’s that word again. Evolving. In my mind, it doesn’t mean progress. It means being left behind while some strange ability I never asked for takes over and turns me into something other than myself. I’m just getting ready to object to the whole idea when, over in the middle of the garage, the truck wheezes, sighs, and then bellows with great confidence to life.

  Brohn and I jump a little and look over to where Manthy is holding up a handful of frayed green wires attached to a thin silver cylinder like she’s just plucked a metal carrot from the ground. “The solar cell was fried,” she announces loud enough for all of us to hear.

  “And?” Brohn calls over to her.

  “And it’s okay. I installed the thermonic sensor cartridge you brought back and rerouted the signal to the drive-chain patch.” I have no idea what she’s talking about. But she seems to know, so that’s good enough for me.

  “And?” Brohn asks again.

  Manthy wipes her hands on a grease-stained rag. “It works. It’ll get us to San Francisco.”

  Hearing Manthy’s pronouncement that our vehicle has a clean bill of health, Cardyn and Rain start dancing around like little kids. Cardyn goes to give Manthy a hug, but he’s met with a hand to his chest and a vicious glare, both of which stop him in his tracks.

  Hoping to defuse the situation, Brohn and I hop down from the work bench and walk over to thank and congratulate Manthy, who looks at us like we’re crazy before heading over to snap the access panels back into place on the side of the truck.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this after everything that’s happened, but it looks like things are working out,” Rain practically sings. “All we have to do now is make it to San Francisco, find this elusive underground movement, reveal what we know, make use of what we’ve learned, and, you know, save the world.”

  “All without getting killed,” Cardyn adds.

  “Yes,” I agree enthusiastically. “Staying alive is a vital part of this plan. Let’s get out of here then, shall we?”

  We all pile into the truck, Brohn eases behind the wheel, and we drive back out onto the road, happy to be done with this archaic and anarchic town, and happier still to be escaping with our lives.

  21

  About four hours later, Brohn slows the truck to a stop. Rain leans forward into the cab to ask him what’s going on.

  “There’s no more road,” Brohn says, pointing to the steep drop-off in front of us.

  He’s right. Our road has ended. Literally. The buckled pavement has come to an abrupt stop at a deep trench dug into the earth about twenty feet ahead. On the far side of the trench, maybe a hundred yards across, are some sections of fencing and old laser-wire. The barrier doesn’t look particularly solid, though. Here and there, I can see a few huge gaps, and much of the fence looks pointless and rusted with age.

  “I guess no one cares if people go in or out anymore,” Rain observes.

  “We’ll have to go the rest of the way on foot,” I say. “We should stash the truck somewhere first, though.”

  Brohn manages to pull in behind a broad rock formation just off the road, and we set about camouflaging the vehicle as best we can with scrub-brush and tangles of dried vines from a nearby cluster of struggling vegetation.

  When the truck is as hidden as it’s going to get, the five of us walk over to the edge of the trench and scan the distance to the other side.

  “Looks passable,” Rain declares as she drops to slide down the embankment.

  We follow her down and cross the rocky span before making our way to the other side, where we clamber up, brush the red dust from our clothes and take a look around at San Francisco.

  Or at least what we think is San Francisco.

  It turns out that the so-called “complete and cultivated” city that was supposed to be our final destination is actually just a long stretch of rickety wooden and metal shelters, endless rows of domed orange tents, with open sewers cutting through the middle of it all. A mountain range of garbage—heaping and steaming under the hot sun—encircles the dying shantytown.

  A few people straggle here and there in the spaces between the orange tents, walking slowly along the dirt footpaths. A few older folks—both men and women—have congregated in the shade under awnings built over some of the entranceways.

  An enormous, half-built tower lurks way off in the distance. Tall metal spires jut out of its clunky red and brown base. It lords over the entire region like an angry ruler casting a venomous eye on his pathetic subjects.

  “It’s another one of those Arcologies,” Rain says, squinting into the distance. “There’s so much poverty here. I wonder if those things will be the cure?”

  “More likely they’re the cause,” Brohn growls. He told me once that he hates inequality. He said that it always leads to more and more injustice, though I suspect that he got the idea from his father. It’s not like we’ve ever known wealth. We grew up in a town full of children, fending for ourselves with scrap-metal and few supplies. Our entire lives have consisted of the purest form of equality: complete, pervasive, and abject poverty.

  Before Brohn has time to launch into an angry oration, though, Card announces that he’s hungry and is starting to wonder if any of the rancid garbage bobbing along in the open sewers has any nutritional value.

  “Only if you think it’s nutritious to vomit and die,” I tell him.

  “How about that?” he says, ignoring my tone and gesturing to something up ahead.

  When we all look to where he’s pointing, our eyes land on
a small roadside shack standing on its own between two of the domed orange tents. The shack’s sides are rusted corrugated metal, barely strong enough to hold up what looks like a cardboard roof covered in some kind of clear plastic tarp.

  “I don’t know if that’s a restaurant,” I reply. “It could be someone’s house. Either way, I’m not really sure we should go barging in there.” The memory of being chased and shot at in Reno just a few hours ago is still fresh, and it’s an experience I don’t care to repeat, especially if it means losing hours in some weird coma-like state.

  Card doesn’t seem to care one way or the other. “I’ll take my chances,” he says.

  Before the rest of us have time to agree or object, Cardyn is marching over to the wobbly little structure, clutching his stomach with both hands and grumbling about how hungry he is.

  He leans over the wooden plank that apparently serves as a counter and sticks his head all the way into the opening.

  “Hello? Anyone here? Especially anyone with something to eat?”

  I slide up next to him and take a quick peek into the interior of the small shed. There are small, fat canvas sacks lined up like bird’s eggs along a slanted shelf. About a dozen or so glass jars of different sizes and shapes and filled with orange and red powder sit in a neat row on the shelf just below that. Something that looks like a cross between a giant salamander and a skinny racoon hangs dead by its back legs from a hook on the ceiling.

  “Let me guess,” a woman’s voice calls out from right behind us. “Lost and hungry?”

  Startled, we whip around.

  The woman is frail, and she leans on a slightly bent ski pole for support. Her long white hair is braided on either side and hangs down nearly to her elbows. She looks us over with silver-gray eyes.

  “Both,” Cardyn says.

  “Is this San Francisco?” Brohn asks, stepping forward and half-shoving Cardyn out of his way in the process.

  The woman gives Brohn a good long stare before shaking her head. “Oakland. San Francisco is that way.” She points with a bony finger to a spot we can’t quite see off in the distance.

  Cardyn shoves his way back in front of Brohn. “I don’t suppose we could…um, get something to eat? Is this your place?”

  The woman nods and grimaces before marching past us to head over to the side of the shed, where she unlocks a padlock and opens a rickety door in the side of the structure. She reappears inside, presses her elbows onto the wooden counter, and stares out at us.

  “Got trade?” she asks, leaning forward and squinting at me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Eggs? Plant-scans? Marks?”

  “I think she means tap-coins. Payment,” Rain advises.

  “Oh.” I dig into my bag and extract a handful of the tap-coins we got from Vail and Roland back in Salt Lake City. “We have these,” I say, offering her a small handful of the coins and hoping it’s not too little to be insulting.

  The woman fondles the coins in her palm and laughs. “Mostly people trade now. The I.D.S. went off-line a few years ago.”

  “What is the I.D.S?” Brohn asks, recalling that Vail had mentioned it back in Salt Lake City.

  “The Implant Disbursement System.” The woman says it like it’s a question she’s stupefied to be asking. “You really don’t know the I.D.S?”

  We all shake our heads in unison, and she laughs again. “Definitely hungry and very definitely lost. I think I get the picture,” she says with a wink.

  “What picture is that?” Rain asks.

  “The one without the Order in it,” she says with another wink. She reaches down and pulls out a stack of dented aluminum cups, which she lines up one by one on the splintered wooden counter between us. Turning her back to us, she grabs a large metal pot by one of its handles and lifts it with a grunt from the small heating element it’s sitting on. She pulls a big silver spoon down from a hook just above her head and pivots to face us once again. Dipping the spoon into the pot, she ladles a helping of not-so-savory-looking white chunks floating in purple water into each of the cups.

  “Tow-Stew,” she says, tipping her chin toward the line of cups. “Ever had it?”

  “Ew,” Cardyn says to me, his nose wrinkled. “I’m not eating anything made out of toes.”

  I give him a dirty look and hope our hostess didn’t hear him. Last thing we need is for her to get annoyed with us and leave us to starve.

  “She said toadstools,” I whisper to Cardyn behind my hand. I turn to the woman, smiling appreciatively. “We used to have Amanita Bisporigera back in the Valta where we come from,” I reply. “But we didn’t eat them. They’re poisonous. We did eat the Aspen Oyster Mushrooms sometimes, but they made some of us sick.”

  Now it’s the woman’s turn to stare, and I’m wondering if I accidentally insulted her or if maybe I have something on my face. I run a hand along my cheek and dab at the corner of my mouth just to be on the safe side.

  “What are you on about?” she asks.

  I look from Brohn and Rain to Cardyn and Manthy, but they all just shrug. “I was just saying about how we had certain toadstools where we come from.”

  Now the woman laughs again. “Not ‘toadstools.’ This is tofu stew. You know? Stew made from tofu. Tow-stew.”

  “Oh,” I blush.

  Cardyn chuckles and gives me an elbow to the arm. “I guess we were both wrong.”

  Our host introduces herself as Caramella. She gives us each a small wooden spoon, and we sample the stew, slowly at first and then with gusto. It turns out to be surprisingly tasty. Of course, after living on scraps of protein flakes and vitamin supplements the past few days, our standards have dipped pretty low.

  Caramella points us to an orange tent attached to a shack similar to hers just down the path. “You’ll want to talk to Tread.”

  “Tread?”

  “He’s a good guy. The kind of good guy who can help some good people like yourselves do some even better things. You’re the Seventeens, right?”

  We stare at each other in stunned silence.

  “You know about the Seventeens?” Rain asks.

  “I know about the five of you. That is to say, I’ve heard of you. Used to be eight of you, right?”

  “That’s right,” Brohn snaps. I put my hand on his upper arm to remind him not to let his emotions take over. Anger comes fast whenever we’re reminded of the two friends we lost in the Processor.

  “Sorry,” I tell Carmella. “Touchy subject.”

  “Understood. I’ve lost my share, too.”

  “I’m confused, though. How did you hear about us?”

  “Word gets around,” she says. “We’ve been hearing stories about you for a while now. Tread and I thought you were made up. An invention.”

  “Nope,” Cardyn mumbles through a mouth overflowing with the tow-stew. “Although there seems to be a lot of that going around.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Invention.”

  “What he means,” Rain explains, “is that for the last six months, everything we thought we were, we weren’t. And everything we thought was happening, wasn’t.”

  “And now you’re looking for answers?”

  “Yeah,” Card burbles before swallowing down the ocean of soup in his overfilled mouth. “And revenge.”

  Manthy mumbles something about Cardyn being a pig. I don’t know if he hears her, but he drags his sleeve across his mouth and manages to remove most of the soup from his face.

  Caramella looks us over like a proud parent. “Well, you may be confused about a lot of things. But knowing what you want doesn’t seem to be one of them.”

  We finish our tow-stew and thank her before heading down the way to see if this Tread person is really going to be a help or just another hindrance we’ll need to deal with. As we make our way from Caramella’s shack down to his, we get some odd stares and the occasional nod from the tired-looking old folks sitting in the orange tents along the way.

  Over on
a little flat patch of land, a dozen or so kids are happily kicking a clunky looking lump of plastic around. Although the landscape looks ravaged, it’s nice to see kids playing. It’s something we haven’t seen since we were at the camp with Adric and Celia. Something about it gives me a dash of hope for the future.

  We stop to watch for a minute. The kids are wary of us at first, but when they see we’re not soldiers and that we’re unarmed, they seem to figure out we’re not worth interrupting their game over and jump back into their frantic scrambling and squealing. After another minute or two, Rain strides ahead, and the rest of us follow.

  “That was us,” Brohn says with one last look at the scampering kids. “A long time ago. Do you remember playing like that?”

  I tell him, “Not really.”

  “No,” he says. “You never really did join in those dumb games, did you?”

  “I wanted to,” I confess. “But I also didn’t want to.”

  Brohn nods and takes my hand as we continue down the makeshift path. “Surprisingly, I know exactly what you mean. Always up in the lab with your father. Or standing off to the side somewhere after he…left.”

  “I thought you never noticed me back then,” I say with a smile. “I’m always amazed when you tell me you knew what I was up to.”

  “Well,” he says, throwing his million-dollar grin my way, “I notice you now. I don’t think I could ever stop noticing you.”

  I stride the rest of the way to Tread’s place with my hand in Brohn’s and a flutter of delight in my heart.

  Tread turns out to be a bear of a man, nearly as big around as he is tall. After sampling the meager fare that passes for food around here, as tasty as some of it is, I’m not sure how anyone could ever manage to get so big on so little. Yet he’s a mountain of a man, perched as he is on a bench seat that’s been torn out of an old car. He’s dressed in what looks like a repurposed café awning and big yellow rubber boots that go all the way up to his lumpy knees, which resemble two heaping piles of sunburned mashed potatoes. His eyes sparkle such a luminous blue they look wet.