“Pretty impressive, Red,” said a whisper from the shadows. “I’ve never seen anyone take down two mechs and make it out alive.”
I spun around, my hands flying into a defensive position, ready to fight this new danger.
“Who’s there?” I whispered harshly.
“Ease off, now,” she said, stepping into the light with her hands in front of her. “I’m not a threat.”
I looked her over. She was about my age and height, but a good bit skinnier. She was not emaciated, but she didn’t look like she’d had a lot of square meals either. Her hair was a startling neon blue and cut in a choppy, chin-length bob with a couple of candy pink streaks framing her face. She wore a lot of dark eye makeup that stood out against her cinnamon-toned skin.
“Everyone’s a threat,” I told her. “Get out of my way.”
“Look,” she hissed, “you can go if you want, but you’re not going to make it far. Those mechs didn’t just stumble across you, they headed straight for the store like you’d sent up a flare. They knew you were there. You take off now and they’re going to find you again. And this time they’ll send so many that you’ll never get loose. Come with me. I can help you.”
“Why? Why would you want to get involved?”
“Red, anyone who has a fight with those mindless killing machines is a friend of mine. And anyone who can win a fight with mindless killing machines is someone I want on my side. If you’re coming, make it now. Reinforcements will be here any minute.”
I hesitated, but it’s not like I had anywhere else to run. I knew she was right about the reinforcements.
“I’m coming.”
She nodded once, “Alright, Red, I’m Sharra. Let’s get moving.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I followed Sharra to the end of the alley where we bellied through a gap in the fence, jogged down another alley, and climbed a ladder attached to a crumbling brick building. We emerged in yet another alleyway, this one blocked by a tall concrete wall.
Sharra showed me the handholds to climb up and over the wall and we abruptly found ourselves at the edge of a crowded open-air market. People strolled carelessly through wide corridors lined with stalls selling everything from fresh fruits and vegetables to household electronics to extravagantly fancy clothing. Several vendors were doing brisk business selling mourning clothes and accessories such as black armbands and appropriately funereal jewelry.
Sharra followed my gaze and made a disgusted noise. “Vultures,” she said. “Trying to make a profit off the death of the president and his kid. That’s just not right.”
I mumbled something in agreement, then asked, “Are you sure we should be here? It’s so… public. And crowded.”
“Exactly. With so many people here, who’s going to look twice at a couple of girls out to do a little shopping?”
I tugged at the chiffon scarves that had again slipped down around my neck, trying to pull them back into place as a meager disguise. Sharra’s sharp eyes watched me for a moment before widening in startled recognition.
“Cha,” she breathed. “Perfect Poppy Walker; I’m pretty sure I just heard that you were dead.”
“Reports of my death are a little premature,” I told her. “But not by much if those mechs recognize me again.”
Sharra chewed on her bottom lip as she considered me and decided on her next move. A moment later she looked down and rummaged through the tote bag she wore strapped across her chest. She pulled out a roll of fabric and gave it a brisk snap to shake out the material, revealing that the roll was actually a wide-brimmed sunhat complete with decorative netting.
As the ozone layer had thinned over the last century, it had become fashionable to wear large hats with filmy sun fabric draped from the brim. The hat and netting protected the wearer from strong UV rays and, conveniently for me, obscured my face and hid my hair as well.
I donned the hat and arranged the fall of the netting. Small beads sewn into the end of the sun fabric clinked together musically as I draped the fabric to my liking. The beads were not only decorative but also served as a weight to keep the wispy netting from blowing up at every puff of wind. It was a clever bit of disguise, as it would leave me indistinguishable from dozens of other women roaming the market in sun hats that ran the gamut from plain and serviceable to elaborately frilly and fantastic.
Sharra took my arm, and we strolled out into the market to mingle with the crowd, pausing occasionally to look at stall displays, then moving on with the busy flow of shoppers. As we walked we were able to converse quietly. The noise from the throngs of people surrounding us ensured that we wouldn’t be overheard.
“Who are you?” I asked again. Sharra dodged the question for a second time.
“No one important. The bigger question is, why is the new president claiming that you were killed in the invasion when you’re clearly alive and well?”
We walked in silence as I considered my options. I didn’t know this girl, but she had helped me escape the mechs. My instincts said that I could trust her; more than that, I needed her.
She was streetwise and prepared in a way that I was not. I didn’t know my way around the city; I had always traveled via limousine or private copter. Though I had cut many ribbons to open new transportation stations, I’d never actually climbed aboard a commuter tram or rocket train. And simply walking the streets unescorted like this was completely new to me. I always had an entourage of security officers, aides, and reporters dogging my every step. On my own I was likely to get myself in trouble very quickly.
Sharra bought a couple of drinks from a convenient stall as an excuse to huddle together at a little table and continue the conversation.
“So apparently you’re supposed to be dead,” she said bluntly.
“Yes. I am supposed to be dead. And if the mechs catch up with me, I definitely will be.”
“Why? Is this some kind of weird glitch left over from hacking the mechs for the attack on the White House? Why are you on your own? I mean, I get that you can’t just walk into the local precinct if the mechs think they are supposed to be chasing you for some reason; but surely you could call the White House, and they’d take care of things.”
I laughed bitterly. “Oh, I’d be taken care of all right. There’s no glitch. There was no hack. The whole attack was made up to get rid of my father and install Rodriguez as president. Now that he’s announced I’m dead, he can’t have me showing up alive and messing with his carefully planned story. He’s got to make sure I stay gone.”
Sharra leaned forward, her eyes intent. “Tell me the whole story.”
And so I did. I told her everything that had happened in the library and about my flight through the tunnels and finished up with the fight against the mechs that she had witnessed. When I was done, I let my head drop to my folded arms on the tabletop and just took a moment to think and try to figure out my next move.
Sharra reached out and tentatively patted me on the shoulder a couple of times. The awkward move felt like she had rarely done such a thing before. We sat in uncomfortable silence for a minute or two until Sharra suddenly asked, “How did the mechs know where you were? I told you before, they weren’t just doing a search, they headed right for the old pharmacy. That’s what caught my attention; they were obviously on an assignment and I wanted to know what was up.”
“I was stupid,” I told her. “I looked a mech in the eye. The facial recognition software has obviously been programmed to look for me. And now that they know I’m in the area, it’s just a matter of time before they flood this neighborhood with mechs to find me.”
Sharra nodded. “You’re right,” she agreed. “You’ve got to get out of here.” She hesitated for a moment before offering, “I could take you back with me, introduce you to Lucas.”
A belated sense of caution kicked in. I had already shared way too much information with this stranger. I was not prepared to just follow her blindly back to wherever she came from.
“For n
ow, I just need to get to the train station,” I told her. “Do you know where it is from here?”
In answer, she turned right at the next cross-street and headed south at a fast trot. “This way,” she told me.
Hoping she was truly leading me to the station, I followed. “Who is Lucas?” I asked as we walked swiftly through the streets.
“He’s the leader of the resistance,” Sharra told me.
“Resistance? What resistance? Who are you resisting?”
“The government, of course!” Sharra looked astonished at my lack of comprehension.
I was pretty amazed myself and more than a little angry. “What exactly are you protesting?” I asked. “The free health care? Law and order in the streets? A booming economy? Wow, I can certainly see how the oppressive government has been beating you down.”
Sharra stopped in her tracks and turned to glare at me. “How about a few of those basic human freedoms laid out in the U.S. Constitution and Bill of Rights?” she demanded. “When we became a new nation, we decided to adopt those documents as the foundation of our law and government. And yet, freedom of the press? Gone. The only acceptable news outlets are official, government-sanctioned operations. The right to bear arms? Don’t let anyone official catch you with that stunner or knife in your bag because you’re not allowed to carry those anymore. Protection from unreasonable search and seizure? Cha! Law enforcement doesn’t bother with little things like warrants anymore. If they think you’re up to something, they come right in and look around. And if they take you in, forget about things like right to counsel and a speedy trial. They can keep you rotting in ‘holding’ for years before they bother to charge you, let alone bring you to trial. And let’s not forget that we are supposed to have government ‘by the people, for the people.’ Do you know how many decades it’s been since there has been an actual, legitimate election? The government gives us the illusion of a fair, free election, but it’s just a show. The votes of ordinary people like me, and probably even you, don’t count for anything.”
I was shaking my head in heated denial. “That’s not true! None of that is true! My father would never allow…”
“Your father wasn’t in charge!” She cut me off with a sharp movement of her hands and an even sharper tone of voice. She made a visible effort to calm down and lowered her voice.
“Look, I’m not saying your dad was a bad guy. From all indications, he was a really good man who was genuinely doing his best. But whether he realized it or not, he was just a figurehead. There’s an entire government hiding in the shadows, and they’re the ones actually pulling the strings. And they’re not real concerned with little things like liberty and justice for all.”
“But that’s … I mean … What proof …?” I couldn’t even formulate a coherent sentence. Could any of this be true? It couldn’t be. How could I have lived my whole life not knowing this if it were true? And yet, how could I just ignore the possibility if there was a chance they really did have proof of their claims? And if it was true, how was I supposed to accept this reversal of everything I’d always believed?
Sharra could see the confusion and conflict I was feeling and softened her approach even further.
“Listen,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to believe me right now. For now, we’re both in agreement that you need to get out of Goodland, right?”
I nodded mutely, and she continued. “Then let’s focus on that for now. Later, maybe we get in touch and I can take you to Lucas. He can show you the proof because we do have it. And if you see it all laid out and you’re still not convinced, I can promise you that Lucas won’t force you to stay. He’s not that kind of guy. He’ll send you safely on your way, and you’ll be out of this whole mess.”
I sniffled, holding back tears. “How come I feel like I’m being invited to a Tupperware party?” I muttered. “Just come for the snacks – she says. No commitment to buy – she says. And then I’m going to walk out of there with a full set of storage containers I’ll never use.”
Sharra laughed. “I like that you don’t lose your sense of humor under stress,” she told me. “That’s a valuable quality in a revolutionary.” She winked at me as she said it.
I only raised an eyebrow in her direction. “I like your optimism,” I replied. “It’s a valuable quality in a government loyalist.”
She laughed again and took my arm. “Come on, Red. We’ve got a train to catch.”
CHAPTER NINE
When we arrived at the transportation station I automatically followed the signs directing us to the entrance, but Sharra tugged me in another direction.
“You can’t walk in there and buy a ticket, Red. ID required. And you can’t buy a ticket for Denver anyway.”
“We’re going to Denver?” I asked skeptically. “Denver doesn’t actually exist anymore … you know, what with being hit with all those cluster bombs.”
“Yep,” Sharra agreed cheerfully. “They bombed the heck out of that whole Denver-Springs urban corridor. Anyone who was left after the bombings cleared out for fear of radiation poisoning. That means it’s perfect for us.”
“Because you enjoy radiation poisoning?”
“Gives us superpowers, don’t you know?” She grinned cheekily before adding, “Seriously, the radiation levels were never that high to begin with and they’ve declined pretty rapidly. As long as you stay away from certain areas, you’re just fine.
“The major benefit is no mechs and no government peacekeepers to avoid. We take care of ourselves and keep to ourselves, and anyone else out there does the same.”
We’d been walking casually along the fence line for the transportation center, heading nowhere in particular. Or so it seemed until Sharra pushed against a section of the fencing, causing it to swing open just a bit. The two of us shimmied through the opening – Sharra had an easier time of it than I did. She had the nerve to laugh when my generous – upper chest, shall we say – got me wedged in the opening for a few moments.
“I always figured those things were more trouble than they were worth,” she chortled.
“Ha, ha,” I responded flatly as I managed to wiggle free. “Very funny, A-Cup.”
She laughed, not taking offense at my mild jibe, and together we pushed the fencing closed. She led me through a maze of outbuildings until we reached one labeled Baggage Terminal C. Pulling a security tag from her bag, she tapped it on the lock which released with a quiet thunk.
She walked confidently through the mostly empty halls, moving as if she had every right to be there. I tried to mimic her attitude. It must have worked to some extent because no one questioned our presence. We walked down two corridors and a short flight of stairs before the way was blocked by a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.”
Sharra’s security tag opened this door too, and we entered a huge open area filled with machines and conveyor belts whipping luggage this way and that and filling giant bins with suitcases and packs en route to other destinations. The noise was incredible; a deep bass rumble of machinery that shook you to the bone with a counterpoint of higher-pitched squeaks and squeals from the various moving parts and a constant thump-thump-thump of baggage dropping into the transport containers.
I looked at Sharra with wide eyes, and she grinned at me and motioned that I should follow her into the locker room beside us. The walls and door must have been very thick because when she closed the door behind us the noise level immediately dropped to bearable background levels.
Sharra moved to the last locker on the row and opened it with another tap of her security tag. She pulled out a small backpack and extracted a plastic makeup case.
“Sit,” she told me. “We’re gonna make sure no one looking at you would mistake you for Perfect Poppy.”
“Blech. I’ve always hated that nickname.”
“You see? There’s a silver lining in everything; at least you can ditch the Perfect Poppy image. From what I’ve learned about you already, I can tell that you’re
not the plastic Politician Barbie Doll we’d all figured you for.”
“Um, thanks?”
Sharra only laughed and began applying makeup to match my look to hers. She added dark shadows and liners around the eyes and layered on the mascara. Then she pulled out a tiny paintbrush and a small pot of blue paint. With light, feathery strokes she drew intricate designs in a strip down the right side of my face.
“With this ‘tattoo’ down the side of your face people will be so busy starting at it that they won’t pay much attention to the rest of your face. Cuts down on the probability that they’ll recognize you that way. I’ll give you this pot of dye so you can refresh the design when you need to.”
I nodded, agreeing with her logic. I was completely on board with her disguise plans until she pulled out a knife and said, “It’s time to do something with the hair. It’s way too recognizable.”
I clutched at my hair in denial. I loved my hair. But after a moment I forced myself to drop my hands and nod. She was right. The hair was too distinctive. I closed my eyes tightly and clenched my fists in my lap as Sharra flipped open the knife and started chopping off long sections of hair. She cut it ruthlessly short, only about a fingertip in length over most of my head and a little bit longer on the top with a small asymmetric fringe over my forehead.
When she was done she directed me to the mirror hanging at the end of the row of lockers. My mouth dropped open in shock as I took in my changed appearance. I was still getting used to the idea of my short-cropped hair and now added to that were dramatically smoky eyes and that very exotic ‘tattoo’ running from forehead to chin.
I ran my fingers through my short hair and pulled it into rough spikes. I thought Sharra had done a pretty decent job of making it look like my jagged haircut was a deliberate style choice instead of an obvious attempt to change my appearance. As a bonus I hadn’t had time to touch up the color lately, so the roots exposed by my super-short cut were noticeably lighter. My hair was now a fiery orange.
Into Shadow Page 5
