Firebirds Rising

by Sharyn November

  The teacher, a haggard, thin woman with short gray hair, stepped into the safety booth at the front of the room and called for order. Hardly anyone listened. Somebody dropped a book, and the woman flinched. “Ha!” cackled the boy beside me. “Gun-shy.”

  The teacher called out “Buenos días,” in a shrill voice. Only half the class responded. She asked everyone to put their thumb on the chair pad for roll call. I noticed the glowing blue circle on the chair arm. I noticed a lot of other chairs had blue circles that weren’t glowing. I noticed a lot of students weren’t bothering to log in, so I didn’t feel so bad about not doing it either.

  Sarah and her posse sat down front with their new pet, brazenly ignoring the teacher. I wondered what the hell I was going to do, how was I going to warn the new girl? If I could just get her name, I might be able to get her e-mail address. I could write: “Hi, you don’t know me but you are in grave danger.” Yeah, like she’d believe that. These were the happiest moments of her short, miserable life. But she wasn’t wearing a rig yet, so there still might be time.

  I nudged the slumped-over guy next to me. “Who’s that girl down there with Sarah Potosi?”

  “I dunno,” the guy slurred at me with a rude glare.

  ’Course not. Who knew anybody in this hell pit?

  I suffered through the Spanish class as the poor teacher tried to get some palabras through to a class that didn’t care. I hunched down in the too-small seat and watched Sarah and her hive fuss and coo over the new girl like she was the latest Supersinger. Oh yeah, Sarah had It, the coolness that attracts no matter what they’re like on the inside. I stuffed my fists in my pockets and ground my teeth. Jealous, me? Nah, just a little pissed off. Sarah turned her heavily made-up face my way, her eyes squinting. Uncle Ted had told me that people have this animal sense—they know when they’re being stared at. One predator knows another. I looked away, hoping she hadn’t seen me.

  When the chime ended the class, I was suddenly sorry I’d chosen to sit in the back. The aisles were jammed with kids fleeing for the door and a few moments of freedom. I’d hoped to follow the hive, maybe pull the Asian girl into a doorway when no one was watching and give her the whole story. She could believe me or not, but at least I’d have tried. I squeezed through the crowd, getting called bitch and worse, but by the time I got to the front of the classroom, Sarah, the hive, and their new prey were gone.

  I followed the rest of Angela’s schedule for the day, but didn’t see any of the hive again. Not even in the lunch room or lavatories. I didn’t feel like asking around after Sarah. Word might get back to her, along with a description of me. As Uncle Ted says, sometimes it pays to be paranoid.

  Besides, I had a date with a datageek. Around 2:00, as most of the school was emptying out, I went down to the computer lab and hung out near Room 201. One of the scrawny guys passing by said, “Can I help you with something?” in that combination of arrogance and abject terror that geeks display around girls.

  “Lookin’ for Zeek,” I mumbled.

  His expression lost every shred of hope. “Yeah. ’Course you are. They’re always looking for Zeek. Down there.” He made a weird, exaggerated nod down the hall. “In the radio lab.”

  “This school has a radio station?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice.” The kid wandered off and I walked down the hall. There was an open door to a ratty-looking studio with an old-style soundboard and chewed-up foam padding on the walls. No one in it. The next door down was slightly open and I peered in.

  It was no bigger than a closet, maybe five by five, walls floor to ceiling lined with electronic sound and computing equipment from I’d swear the last hundred years. Wouldn’t have been surprised to see an old CD player or even an eight-track. The rest of the space inside the room was filled by a tall, skinny kid with brown skin and shoulder-length brown hair that couldn’t decide whether to dread or ’fro, sitting on a rickety wheeled office chair. His big brown eyes gazed at me with wary intelligence and his smile wasn’t exactly welcoming.

  “’S up?” he asked.

  “Zeek?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Hear you know something about hive-nets.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, do you or don’t you?”

  “Who says I do?”

  I paused. What the hell. “A friend of Sarah’s.”

  “Sarah P.?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, this friend of Sarah P. better watch her mouth. Come in and close the door.”

  I squeezed in, feeling pretty uncomfortable in the tight space. “You like it in here?”

  “More cozy than home. Now what you want?”

  “I wanna start my own hive.”

  “Heh.” He chuckled. “Hope you got the leafy, girl. You don’t exactly look dressed for success.”

  “My ’rents are Frugies.” They hadn’t been Frugalists, actually, one of the most hated movements in America, but I figured it might get me some sympathy.

  “Dude, that’s ugly.”

  “Tell me.”

  “How many?”

  “In my family?”

  “In your hive, emptywig.”

  “Oh. Maybe four.”

  “Probably cost you four Ronnies, then. Not including the rigs.”

  “Four hundred dollars! I could get a legit net for that!”

  “On setup, maybe, but then you’d keep paying every month. Not to mention DHS, NSA, PTA, and God knows who all able to listen in and track. Spyder nets you pay only once and there’s no Big Brother hanging on. Got it?”

  “Yeah. But I don’t got that kind of leafy right now.”

  “Then why are we still talking?”

  I was staring at all the equipment. What a perfect place to hide a phone net transmitter. Who would know, or even care? “Did Sarah pay that much?” I asked, stalling.

  Zeek chuckled again and his eyes became sly and knowing. “Sarah takes some of it out in trade, know what I’m sayin’?”

  I didn’t want to know what Sarah traded. “Yeah, right. Probably all HUAC anyway.”

  “Hey, you doubt me, ask around at the Crazy C. See what it gets you.”

  Probably beaten the crap out of, was my guess. The Crazy C was a downtown hangout not known for checking ID too closely, or noticing what the patrons might be doing. It seemed to be protected by all sorts of strange zoning codes. Lots of towns have such a place, Uncle Ted says, and how long they last depends on how long they keep the money flowing to local politicos. Anyone asking too much about spyders or Sarah at the Crazy C was not going to be mistaken for a friendly. “Never mind. I gotta think about this.”

  “Get out, then, bitch, and don’t come back until you’re richer. Better yet, don’t come back.” This was said without anger, by a king secure in his kingdom, even if it’s a five-by-five closet paneled with silicon and steel and smelling of ozone and sweaty socks.

  I slipped out the door and slung the backpack over my shoulder. Leaving the school was easy, so long as it was after class hours. They only try to keep you in while they’re being paid to. I trudged across the asphalt yard, feeling only semi-successful. I’d found the spyder, but so what? I’d seen the new victim-to-be, but so what? I hadn’t solved anything yet.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar car rolling up to the curb as I went out the security archway. A real familiar car. My stomach sank and I sighed as I got into the Prius. “Hey, nice of you to come pick me up, Uncle Ted.”

  As he glared at me, I could almost see the anger radiating off him like the squiggly heat lines in cartoons. He jerked the wheel hard and the car lurched back into the street. “What. The hell. Do you think. You are doing?”

  “Well, I told you I was job-hunting. I thought maybe they might need a new lunch lady or something…”

  “Michelle!” he roared. Uncle Ted never calls me Michelle. And he never roars. His fingers were white on the steering wheel.

  I slumped down in the seat. “I was investig
ating Angela’s hive.”

  “God damn it!” He struck the steering wheel so hard I could swear I heard it crack. A horn blared behind us. Uncle Ted leaned out his window and yelled stuff in Spanish and English that could cause a plaster Maria to burst into flame. The car behind sped around us with a squealing of tires. And then he turned back to me. “People. Get hurt. Doing this sort of thing. People. Get killed. Doing this sort of thing. I should know. I got scars. Most of my friends got scars. Some of them got headstones. You hearing me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “So what the friggin’ hell were you doing?”

  I took a few deep breaths and said, “I know who Sarah’s next victim is.”

  “No, you don’t know!”

  “Yes, I do! I saw her. I saw Sarah the killer queen fuss over her. I’ve been there. I know what’s going on, Uncle Ted!”

  “Did this Sarah see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Damn it, Mitch. Is that all?”

  I paused a little longer. “I know who the spyder is.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit.”

  “It’s cool. He just thought I was an unhappy potential customer.”

  Uncle Ted shook his head. “You have no idea what you’re doing. I should never have let you talk to that Angela.”

  “Uncle—”

  “You are so grounded. Two weeks!”

  “What? Uncle Ted, I’m not a child!”

  “Then stop acting like one!”

  “I am not! That’s unfair!”

  “I am one seriously pissed off grown-up! That entitles me to be unfair!”

  I crossed my arms on my chest and let my jacket hood slip down over my eyes. “How did you know I was at the school?”

  “I got a buddy who’s a narc there.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “Watch your mouth. You would not make your mother proud saying such words.”

  Yeah, like he should talk. The powers that be could spare money to track down every ounce of weed but couldn’t spare the time to save the life of one girl. I stared out the window, feeling a good sulk coming on. Then I noticed something. “Hey, this isn’t the way home.”

  “I gotta stop by the office. Doc Sophie wanted to tell me something.”

  “She couldn’t use the phone?”

  “She wanted to talk in person.”

  On a better day, I would have teased him about Sophie wanting face time, but this was not that day.

  We pulled up into the parking lot of the station. Doc Sophie was standing on the sidewalk and came over to the car, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. When she saw me her eyes widened. Uncle Ted got out even before the engine shuddered to a halt, asking, “Sophie, what’s wrong?”

  Still staring at me, Doc Sophie said, “You’re even more psychic than usual, Theodore. Still, I guess it’s just as well you brought her.”

  That extra sense must run in the family. I jumped out of the car, asking, “It’s about Angela, isn’t it?”

  Sophie nodded and looked down at the ground. “She got up to the top floor of the hospital. No one knows how. She—”

  “Is she okay?”

  Sophie shook her head. “She’s dead.”

  “No!”

  Uncle Ted grabbed me and held me while I pounded his chest with my fists. “No, damn it, no!” I yelled, still hearing Angela in my head, saying, “Don’t leave me!”

  “I’m sorry,” Sophie whispered. “You tried, Mitch. I know you did. Sometimes, when a person is just determined—”

  “There was nothin’ you could do, honey,” Uncle Ted said.

  “There was plenty I could have done! I should have stayed connected to her longer, I should have—”

  “Could you have replaced her hive?” asked Sophie.

  I stopped, remembering the emptiness. No one voice from the outside could have filled it. “No,” I admitted. Then I turned to Uncle Ted. “So. Looks like Sarah bagged herself another victim, doesn’t it?” I snarled at him.

  “What?” asked Sophie.

  “Mitch is just upset. Never mind. Thanks, Sophie. We’ll talk later, okay?”

  Sophie nodded and Uncle Ted practically forced me back into the car. I felt my old buddy Anger come roaring back, filling every bone and muscle.

  “God, I’m sorry, Mitch. God, I’m sorry,” Uncle Ted said as we drove on to the apartment. I wiped a few tears, but I didn’t say anything. I was scared of what might jump out of my mouth.

  Uncle Ted took a call on his cell—a job had come up. When he dropped me off at home, he turned and looked at me, worry all over his face. “I gotta go to work. You gonna be okay, honey?”

  “Sure, fine,” I growled. “Am I still grounded?”

  “’Fraid so, honey, more than ever. You’ve got every right to be upset, but I don’t want you doing anything stupid.”

  “I won’t.” I got out and slammed the car door.

  He got out partway and shouted, “Mitch, I love you. I just…don’t want you getting hurt.”

  That made me pause. Uncle Ted never says “I love you.” I turned and looked back at his sad, weathered face. “Too late for that,” I said. Then I added, softer, “Thanks,” feeling the tears flow again. “Love you, too.”

  “I’ll see you later, honey.”

  “Yeah.”

  He slipped back into the Prius and roared off. I dragged myself up into the apartment, wishing I had a boatload of tissues to wipe my face. Uncle Ted sure knew how to take the air out of a case of righteous rage. But it was still there, simmering below the surface. One way or another I was going to get Sarah and her hive. Just a matter of when and how.

  I sat on my bed and tried to calm my thinking, trying to channel the anger into something useful, like a plan. The phone rang, jangling me out of my fine meditation of hate. I could have just let the machine get it, but I was hoping it was one of those phone evangelists now oh-so-protected by free speech amendments, ’cause I was spoiling for a fight.

  “Hey,” I snapped at the receiver as I picked it up.

  “Sugar pie, is that you?” It was Skippy Alvarez. He’d spent too much time in a platoon of Southerners, and therefore called women by the most syrupy crap. “Is Teo there?”

  “Naw, Unk is at work, you might try his cell.”

  “Don’t wanna bother him. Just thought we might get together one more time before I left town. Tell him I called, will ya?”

  “Wait! Cousin Skip, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, sweetie, ask anything.”

  “Skip…what do you know about cell phones?”

  An hour later, Skippy was sitting in front of me in the living room. He was short and broad and looked like he could pick up a tank if he had to. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped in a short flattop, and his eyes were flinty black, but held a glint of worldly amusement. He pushed a white cardboard box, about the size of a small brick, across the coffee table at me. “Just so you know, it’s a felony to have one of these.”

  I didn’t pick the box up right away. “A felony to carry a jammer?”

  Skip nodded. “FCC takes its rights seriously. Doesn’t keep them from coming in, though. This one’s Italian make. They use them in churches over there and in Mexico.”

  I gently opened the box, like it was a bomb or something.

  “Mind you, that one’s been a little…modified.”

  I jerked my hands away. “Modified how?”

  Skip shrugged. “It’s also a booster. Helps when the signal is weak in some areas.”

  “Spook modified?”

  He winked at me. “It’s got its tweaks. Mind you, I don’t know all the mechanics of the ESP, so I can’t guarantee how it will interact. This stuff you’ve been telling me about the girls dying…”

  “Killing themselves, Skip. It’s ugly.”

  He bit his lower lip and shook his head. “I always wondered when something like this wou
ld happen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He folded his thick fingers in his lap and leaned toward me. “Back in the 1960s, there was this guy, Dr. Allen Frey, who was involved in some studies called Project Pandora for the Department of Defense. He discovered a thing they called ‘microwave hearing.’ Seems you can beam radio frequencies at a person, do it just right it sounds like words inside their head. Artificial telepathy.”

  I sat back. “You don’t even need a phone?”

  “Not for limited purposes, no. They found there were all kinds of…effects you could get by using the right frequencies. It was a real active area of study for a while among the non-lethal weapons people. Almost mind control, you could say.”

  I sucked my breath in. “Holy shit.”

  “Pretty unholy, if you ask me. Anyway, Project Pandora is long gone and many of the scientists moved on to the corporate world. I guess it was only a matter of time until some of their findings found…commercial applications.”

  My thoughts spun like tires on ice. “The addictiveness of the ESP…do they know…did they plan…?”

  He shrugged again. “Who can say?”

  “Do they want to kill girls?”

  Cousin Skip shook his head. “It’s not profitable to kill off your customers, sugar pie. No, I figure that’s a side effect the developers hadn’t counted on. There’s a saying from back in your grandfather’s time: ‘The street finds its own uses for technology.’ This hive queen of yours is just taking advantage of a hidden…feature.”

  “Shit,” was all I could say.

  He pushed the box closer to me. “Use it, but use it wisely and in good health. Maybe you can bring a little more attention to this whole mess.” He took out the slim, black bar about the size of my grandfather’s cell phone, and showed me the controls. “This switch is the jammer. The range is set at about a twenty-foot radius. You don’t want larger than that, or you might call attention to yourself. That’s the booster dial. Keep it low, if you need it…set too high, something might break. Got it?”