Erica raised the gun toward Nick’s face.
Nick tensed. “What the . . . ?”
“I said don’t move,” Erica hissed, aiming the gun over Nick’s left shoulder. “Do you want to get shot in the face?”
Erica held the gun steady, aiming, and Nick held himself very still.
Nick saw a flash, bright, and felt a rush of heat on his left cheek and heard a buzz zip past his left ear.
“Got it!” said Erica.
Nick opened his eyes and spun around, scrambling to his feet. On the ground, twenty feet away, lay a dead rabbit, shot in the side of the neck.
“Our next meal,” said Erica, standing up and clapping Nick on the shoulder. “Unless you prefer protein paste, of course.”
That evening as the sun was setting, after eating the rabbit for an early dinner, they arrived at the Freepost. Nick’s breath caught as he saw the makeshift shelters, the mix of scavenged and foraged materials, tucked tightly into a clearing. So reminiscent of his own Freepost, his whole world just a few short weeks ago, now gone forever. Kevin was hopefully inside one of those shelters—he had to be.
The village clearing was set in a small valley, with a great deal of tree cover overhanging the high ground. It was a smart spot, Nick realized. Difficult to see much more than foliage from up above, and the valley squeezed into a tight neck at the entrance, which would be easy to guard.
Two men stepped out of a shelter set at the edge of the Freepost and raised their weapons. One held an actual sword, something Nick had never seen outside of one of his mother’s history books. Still, he knew that the blade, as medieval as it might be, would kill him just as dead as any lase. The man held it with a casual athletic elegance that made it clear he knew how to use it. The other man held a stunbolt, similar to the one Nick had in his pack. It wouldn’t kill him, but it would put him down . . . and then that sword would have no trouble finishing the job. Behind the men, Nick could see a few Freeposters walking past, watching him.
“Erica the wanderer,” said the man with the sword. He was short and tan, with a thin black beard. His forearms were huge, the muscles flexing as he gripped his sword. “What has it been, a month?” He pointed the tip of his blade at Nick. “Who’s your friend?”
“Hello, Lucas,” said Erica.
“I’m looking for my brother,” Nick said. “He’s almost fourteen. His name’s Kevin. Is he here?”
“Haven’t seen him,” said the other man, his stunbolt aimed squarely at Nick’s heart.
Nick felt like he had been kicked in the chest. “I was hoping maybe he had wandered in here on his own, or maybe the rebels dropped him off. . . .”
“No,” said the man with the stunbolt.
“Well, maybe he came in at night, someone else maybe took him in . . . Maybe he’s hurt. . . .”
“I said no,” the man said again, with a hint of warning in his voice.
“Son, Aram’s right. We would know if anyone from outside was here,” said Lucas, in a kinder tone than the other man. “I’m sorry.”
Nick felt desperate. What would he do now, if this was a dead end? Go back to where he had lost Kevin and wander aimlessly around the woods some more, until the bots eventually came back for him? “Maybe someone knows something,” he said. “I’d like to ask around.”
“We don’t need a stranger wandering around our Freepost knocking on doors,” said Aram, his stunbolt still leveled at Nick.
Nick clenched his fists in frustration. “Look, I won’t hassle anyone, I just need to talk. . . .”
Aram holstered his stunbolt and took a step toward Nick, scowling. Erica stepped forward, holding up her hands in a peacekeeping gesture. “Take it easy, Aram,” she said.
Nick braced himself. The man was big, as tall as Nick but much broader, and Nick knew he’d probably get pummeled by him, but there was no way Nick was going back into the woods without going into the Freepost first. . . . At least the man planned to use his fists, instead of his stunbolt. . . .
“Aram, wait!” said a woman’s stern voice. Aram paused and turned to face the woman walking quickly up the path toward them. She had long gray hair, tied back in a ponytail. She wore a blue blouse tucked into a pair of khakis, and brown work boots. With her gray hair, and the crow’s-feet around her eyes, Nick guessed she was in her late fifties, although her long, confident stride made her seem younger.
“This one was being difficult,” said Aram.
“Don’t be an idiot,” said the woman. Aram reluctantly unclenched his fists and stepped back, still scowling.
She walked up to Nick and stood in front of him, her hands on her hips. “You coming from the City?” she asked. “A brother and a sister with you?”
“Yes,” said Nick, flustered. “I mean, no, my brother’s missing and my sister’s captured . . . but how . . . I mean . . .”
“Pigeon from the City, telling me to expect two brothers and a sister on the run,” she said. “First time I hear from that bastard in two years.” She shook her head, then continued. “You know Dr. Christos Pallos?” she continued.
Nick looked at her blankly.
The woman sighed. “Goes by ‘Doc’? Short, fat, hairy forearms?”
“Doc! You know Doc?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” she said. “He’s my husband.” She pointed at Aram. “And Aram’s father.”
CHAPTER 10
“MY NAME,” SAID THE WOMAN, LEANING IN TOWARD KEVIN, “IS MIRA Clay. I was a captain in the North American Air Defenses before the uprising. I am second in command here at the Island, and one of my many duties,” she paused, “is to determine if new recruits are security risks.”
“Recruit?” said Kevin, feeling a fresh rush of anxiety. “Recruited for what?”
Captain Clay smiled coldly. “I go first. What is your name? Where are you from?”
“Kevin,” he said. “I’m from a Freepost out west.”
“And Kevin,” said Captain Clay, “why were you wandering around in the woods, about to be captured by City bots, instead of safe and sound at home in your Freepost?”
Kevin’s fear slid away, replaced with anger. “The bots destroyed my home,” he said. “They took my parents. I had nowhere to go.”
“I’m sorry,” said Captain Clay, although Kevin didn’t think she sounded sincere at all. She leaned back in her seat, still watching Kevin intently. “Revolution 18? 19? Which one was your Freepost?”
Kevin opened his mouth, closed it, and coughed to try to hide his tension. “Revolution 19” was a City term. He didn’t want her knowing he had been in the City—it didn’t feel safe to be telling this woman too much about himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
Captain Clay leaned forward again. “Kevin, have you been to a City?”
“No,” he said.
“That small scar on the back of your neck,” the Captain said. “Have you been chipped?”
Kevin reflexively lifted his hand to touch the back of his neck, but quickly stopped himself. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’ve had this scar since I was a little kid. Fell out of a tree.”
“Dangerous, climbing trees,” said the Captain. She smiled thinly. “Okay, Kevin, let’s try another one. Other survivors? Who were you with?”
“Nobody,” said Kevin. “I was alone.”
Captain Clay leaned back in her seat and said nothing, staring at Kevin. She tapped her fingers on the table. Kevin forced himself to return her stare, to try not to give anything away.
“Quite the survivor, all by yourself in the wilderness,” she said, finally. She stood and turned to Grennel, abruptly seeming bored. “He’s obviously not being entirely honest. But he’s safe enough for now. Bring him to the dorms.”
“Uh, Captain, ma’am? Ms. Clay? Thanks, but I don’t want to stay,” said Kevin.
Captain Clay turned back toward Kevin. “Captain Clay is fine,” she said. “And you will be staying, at least for a while.”
She spread her arms out. “You have somewhere to stay now. After all, your Freepost was destroyed, and you are all alone, right?”
“Right,” said Kevin unhappily.
“Good. You are now a probationary member of the Island. You will be safe from the bots here. But remember the golden rule in the Island: Make yourself useful. We’ll talk again.” She walked out of the room.
Grennel motioned for Kevin to stand. “Come on. We’ll find you a bunk.”
The Island, from what Kevin could see as Grennel led him through the settlement, was more orderly in its layout than his Freepost. The construction materials were similar—high tech mixed with low tech—but the buildings were arranged in strict geometry, structures three rows deep surrounding large central squares, traversed by two main paths, one north–south, one east–west, and numerous smaller walkways. In the distance to the south, between gaps in the buildings, he could see a large field that looked like it was being used to farm vegetables, and beyond that, a pen with sheep and cows. There was a central quad, with a fire pit that looked well used. Kevin wondered if they had Council gatherings and kidbons. Looming above everything in the distance, in all four directions, was the wall. Kevin noticed that to the south a large section of the wall, maybe fifty feet of it, was missing.
People stared openly at him as he walked past. There was something odd about them, and it took Kevin a moment to realize what it was. Everyone seemed busy and serious, even the kids. Back at home, in his Freepost, folks stayed busy, certainly, but if you walked through the settlement you’d see some people smiling, laughing, taking a few minutes to trade gossip. Not here. It was just as populated as his Freepost, maybe more—but there were no smiles, and the Islanders all walked fast, concerned only with getting from point A to point B.
But of course the real glaring difference between his Freepost and the Island were the bots. He saw three on his short walk, all with the odd leather-patched skin. Two were carrying bundles of wood that looked impossibly heavy for their slender frames. A third was walking to the vegetable field. It was empty-handed, but three girls followed behind it, each carrying large baskets. They didn’t seem fazed by walking next to a bot.
Grennel led him into a small one-room building lined with five bunk beds on each wall, with a narrow aisle in the middle. Three boys were sitting on one of the bunks, hunched over a spread-out deck of cards and a pair of dice. They stood when Grennel and Kevin walked in, and stared openly at Kevin.
“Your new home,” said Grennel. Kevin bit back an angry reply. This was not home. This was another prison that he had to escape from, just like the City. His home was the charred remains of his Freepost, somewhere out to the west.
Grennel nodded at the other boys. “You have a new bunk-mate,” he said. “Get him up to speed with the basics. Take him to the Wall gap on your next work shift.” Grennel patted Kevin on the shoulder and walked out.
One of the boys stepped forward. He was probably a few years older than Kevin, and big, with a thick neck and broad shoulders. His hair was a wild mess of black curls. He had a small scar on his cheek, just below his right eye. “Otter,” he said.
“Um, excuse me?” said Kevin.
“Otter,” the boy repeated. “That’s my name.”
“Oh. Kevin. I’m Kevin.” He nodded at Otter, then at the other two boys, who said nothing. One was as tall as Otter but skinnier, and the other was smaller than Kevin with a long scar on the side of his face.
“Kevin,” said Otter. He pointed at a bunk on the far wall. “That’s my bunk. Stay away from it.”
Kevin shrugged, pretending not to care, although his fingers were tingling from nerves. “No problem,” he said.
Otter pointed at another bunk. “That’s my bunk too,” he said with an edge of warning in his voice. The two boys behind Otter chuckled.
Kevin nodded. “Okay,” he said. He was still trying to seem calm and casual, even though his heart was pounding. You couldn’t let a bully see you were scared.
“And that one,” said Otter, pointing to another. “And that one too.”
“Fine,” said Kevin. “Just tell me which ones aren’t yours.”
“They’re all mine, except for Pil’s”—he pointed at the young boy— “and Cort’s.” He pointed at the tall, skinny boy.
Kevin stared at Otter, who was grinning at him mockingly, and he thought about everything he had been through these past few weeks, how he had failed to save his parents and how he was now worse off than ever, trapped on this Island, whatever the hell it was. And to top it off, he was going to get bullied by some scavenger who wanted eight bunk beds all to himself? Suddenly he felt no fear, just anger.
“Go rust yourself, Otter,” he said.
Kevin barely saw the punch coming. It was a quick, sharp right jab, nailing him under his right eye. The room exploded with pain and he stumbled backward, half falling, half sitting on the cold ground. He held his hand up to his face. Otter looked down on him, hands on his hips, and Kevin scrambled back to his feet. His eye was already swelling, he could feel it shutting. At least he hadn’t rebroken his nose.
Otter waited calmly, his hands at his sides, waiting for Kevin’s reaction. Pil and Cort watched intently from behind.
“I said go rust yourself,” repeated Kevin. “And you punch like my sister.” Which actually was a compliment, but he knew Otter wouldn’t take it that way. He clenched his hands into fists and waited for Otter’s move. There was no way one kid with a fat neck was going to intimidate him. He’d fight back as hard as he could, and he’d lose, but Otter would feel it.
Otter threw his head back and laughed, a genuine laugh. Kevin stood there, confused, his hands slowly unclenching.
“Take any bed on that side of the room,” said Otter, pointing. “Sorry about the eye.”
Kevin sat down on a bottom bunk nearby. His eye throbbed and he felt a bit dizzy. The other two boys now came up and reintroduced themselves. Up close, the tall boy, Cort, looked younger than Kevin had first thought—he might have been Cass’s age. He said hello in a quiet, soft voice, then walked away. The other boy, Pil, offered his hand and Kevin shook it, formally, feeling awkward. “Don’t worry about Otter,” Pil whispered. “He’s all right. Just making sure about you. No room for cowards in the Island.”
“Yeah, well maybe he could have done that without punching me in the eye?”
Pil laughed. “No, unfortunately not.”
“So what is this place?” Kevin asked.
Pil shrugged. “It’s the bunkhouse for us orphans.”
I’m not an orphan, Kevin thought, but he kept it to himself. Maybe if they didn’t think he had any reason to leave, they wouldn’t watch him as carefully.
“No, I mean all of this,” Kevin said, gesturing broadly with his hands. “The Island.”
“The Island?” said Pil. “The Island is the Island. It’s a place where we can live safely, as long as we do our jobs. The Wall protects us from the bots.”
“What about the weird bots in the Island? The ones with the leather faces?” said Kevin.
Pil frowned. “They’re the Governor’s bots, not City bots. Nobody likes them, but they get a lot of work done, at least. And it’s not like anyone’s going to tell the Governor or Captain Clay to get rid of them.”
“Who’s the Governor?” asked Kevin.
Pil shook his head. “Enough questions.” He nodded at the door. “Come on, it’s time for our work shift.”
Kevin followed the boys out the door, although all he wanted to do was lie down on the bed. His eye was hurting badly, and the anesthetic the medic had used on his nose was wearing off, so that was starting to hurt too.
The boys walked quickly, without talking, like all the other Islanders Kevin had seen. They took him to the southern edge of the camp, and despite Kevin’s fatigue and pain, he found his curiosity was piqued. The Wall loomed high to the left and right, but they stood in front of the large gap, fifty feet across, where the Wall was unfinished.
The open area was up against a steep hill—all Kevin could see through the gap was the green and brown bank.
A small group of Islanders, two men and a woman, were working on the Wall construction. The two men were uncoiling a length of the conductive wire, and the woman was cutting lumber with a table lase. She looked up when the boys arrived and lifted the dark goggles she wore. She pointed at a large pile of raw lumber. “Same as yesterday. Strip down the wood with the glide, then haul them to me.” She nodded at Kevin. “Welcome to the Island.”
Kevin wasn’t going to say thank you, but he nodded back. They got to work. The glide, it turned out, was a sort of handheld laser planer, similar to the tabletop version that he had used in Tech Tom’s workshop. The trick was to pull it slow and steady along the wood, so the lase would bite evenly, and to keep your hands firmly on the grips and nowhere near the cutting plane. It was harder than it looked, because the lase cut effortlessly and it was tempting to move too fast and ruin the cut, but Kevin had no problem picking it up immediately after watching Otter run one plank. The woman at the table lase watched him carefully on his first cut, then nodded with a somewhat surprised grunt of satisfaction and went back to her work.
They continued stripping the wood, working their way slowly through the large pile of lumber. Kevin tried to unobtrusively study the Wall as he worked. The conduction lines obviously powered whatever sort of camouflage field was being generated and dispersed it along the Wall perimeter. But what in the world was that field? He had never heard of anything like it.
He watched the two men working with the conduction line. They had laid out a long length, about twenty feet, and were fitting one end into a connection hub. Kevin felt a rush of recognition—it was no different, really, than the power grid lines and connectors that he knew so well, just on a much bigger scale. Something was bothering him, though, the way one of the men was struggling with the hub. He was fighting with it, forcing it in with brute strength, but if the hub was anything like Tom’s grid hubs, then all he had to do was release the interior bolt lock . . . “Can’t you just release the bolt lock and then reclamp it?” he said, and immediately regretted it. Everyone froze at his question—the two men, the woman at the table lase, the three boys planing the wood.
Fugitive X Page 4
