by AJ Steiger
“What makes you think they were innocent?”
“Okay, maybe some of them weren’t. Maybe some worked for IFEN. So what? What about the patients? What about the janitors and security guards? Who even cares whether the victims were IFEN employees or not? I was an IFEN employee, remember? Not everyone working there is evil. And now the Blackcoats are talking about setting off more bombs, about going on the offensive. That means more people will die.”
Steven breathes a heavy sigh and rakes a hand through his hair. “We have to take some risks if we’re going to change things.” His voice is low and gentle, like I’m a panicky little girl who needs soothing. “There are casualties in every war. If we don’t fight, things will just keep getting worse, and so far, these people are the only ones I’ve found who are willing to fucking do something about it.”
I lower my gaze. There’s a catch in my throat, and I swallow, but it doesn’t go down. “What if I decided to leave the Citadel?” I blurt out. “Would you come with me?”
“What?” His brows draw together. He shakes his head, alarm growing in his expression. “You’re not actually thinking of leaving, are you? It would be suicide. What would we do? Spend the rest of our lives in the Underground, burning garbage and eating rat burgers?”
“Answer the question.”
“What is this, some kind of mind game?”
“Steven. Just answer.”
“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know.”
Silence hangs between us.
This shouldn’t surprise me. It shouldn’t hurt so much. But with those three words, I feel like some intangible thread between us has snapped. I had assumed, on some level, that no matter what happened, no matter what I chose, Steven and I would be together.
I push the feeling aside and take a deep breath. “I really believe there’s another way. If enough people rally together and try to change things, they can overcome IFEN’s influence. What if we tried talking to the National Ethical Committee?”
Judging by the look he gives me, I might have just suggested solving the problem by painting ourselves with chicken’s blood and doing a rain dance. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. Why is that such a strange idea?”
“Because they don’t bargain with terrorists. To them, we’re lower than dung beetles. Nothing is going to change unless we take down IFEN first. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
I squeeze my hands into fists. There’s an arrogant edge to his voice that I’ve never heard there before, and I don’t like it. “That isn’t true. We can organize and ally ourselves with citizens in the URA who share our ideals. We can educate people—”
“How? How are we going to do that, when IFEN silences anyone who speaks up?”
“We’ll find a way.”
He turns his back to me. “Sorry, but I’m not going to wait around another twenty years hoping that people’s minds will change.” His tone is flat and bitter, but there’s a hint of sadness, too. “While you’re handing out pamphlets or making speeches, another thousand Fours will self-euthanize because IFEN has made their lives a living hell. We need change now. And I’m going to make it happen, with or without your approval.” He turns his back to me. “If you need me, I’ll be in the training room. I’m going to practice on my own for awhile.” He marches around the corner, his black coat flowing behind him.
Alone in the hall, I clench my fists, trying to choke down the lump in my throat. I hate this. I hate fighting with the one person I actually trust. But I can’t just sit quietly by while people are dying. I can’t pretend I’m okay with everything that’s happening here.
I hear footsteps and turn to see Rhee approaching. She stops a few paces away. “You missed the end of the Assembly.”
“I know. Sorry.” With my thumb, I quickly wipe the moisture from the corners of my eyes. “To be honest, I’m really not in the mood to be lectured right now.”
“I didn’t come to lecture you. I wanted to ask you something.” She pulls a wallet-sized tablet computer from her pocket and, with a few taps, brings up a photo. “Do you know this boy?”
My mouth falls open. A young man stands on a street corner, wearing a dark coat which nearly blends in with the night. His shoulders are hunched, and he’s in the process of turning, so only his profile is visible, but I’d recognize him anywhere. It’s Ian. “Yes, I know him. He’s my friend. We trained as Mindwalkers together. Why?”
“He’s been spotted in Toronto.”
18
“He’s here?” I ask, breathless. “Are you sure?”
“That photo was taken here in the city,” she replies. “So yes, we’re sure. We have a network of informants throughout the city. Apparently he’s been asking people about the Blackcoats and the Citadel. Not very smart of him.” She tucks the tablet computer back into her pocket. “At this rate, he’ll be snatched up by the police in no time.”
I already knew that Ian was secretly involved with the rebel movement, but on the surface at least, he was still a good student and a law-abiding citizen. If he’s here now, it means his cover has been blown. Something must have gone terribly wrong. “Where is he, exactly?”
“He was last seen outside a club called The Cube. I know one of the bouncers there. I’m going to go back up there, talk to a few people, hopefully get some answers. I just wanted to confirm his identity with you first.”
“I want to go with you.”
“That would not be wise,” she says. “There’s a bounty on your head, remember.”
“I’ll wear my mask. Besides, Ian knows me. He’ll be more likely to trust you and come with you willingly if I’m there.”
Rhee crosses her arms over her chest. She’s frowning, but I can see the gears in her head turning, weighing the benefits and drawbacks of my proposal. “Normally, we don’t take new recruits to the surface so soon after their arrival. You’ve only just started training.”
“I can’t just sit around while Ian might be in trouble.” I soften my voice. “Please. Let me help.”
There’s a brief pause. “I need to talk to Zebra. Meet me back here in ten minutes. And be ready to leave immediately. The sooner we can locate him, the better. With luck, we’ll only be up there a few hours.”
I let out a breath, and a knot between my shoulders loosens. “What about Steven?”
“What about him?”
“Is he coming with us?”
She shakes her head. “I have someone else in mind, and three is all we need. More than that will just attract attention.”
Once she’s gone, I’m left standing alone in the hall, listening to the omnipresent, rhythmic thump-thump of machinery behind the walls. Sudden uncertainty itches at the back of my brain. I need to tell Steven where I’m going, at least. I make my way to the training room and stand outside the door. The rattle of artificial gunfire is audible, even through the thick metal—Steven killing holos.
I raise one hand to knock, then stop. What if he’s opposed to the idea of me accompanying Rhee? Going to the surface is risky, even if we won’t be doing any fighting. What if Steven tries to talk me out of it? I don’t want to deal with that right now. More to the point, I don’t have that sort of time to waste.
His retreating back flashes through my head, along with his parting words: I’m going to make it happen, with or without your approval. Something inside me hardens. Why do I need his permission, anyway? Rhee said it wouldn’t take long. I’ll be back before he even knows I’m gone. Still, an ache of guilt pulses through me as I walk away. I tell myself that it’ll be better for him not to know, that he’ll just worry needlessly, if he does.
I make a brief stop in my room to grab a coat. When I return to the spot where Rhee and I agreed to meet, she’s already waiting. “This way,” she says.
She leads me to a small but very solid-looking metal door, keys in a code on a number pad, peers into a retinal scanner, and presses her thumb to a white square, which
blinks green. A recorded voice intones, “State your name.”
“Rhee Skylark.”
The door swings open with a ponderous creak, and the lights snap on. My jaw drops. It’s an armory—not quite as vast as the Assembly Hall, but close—and it’s completely filled with weaponry. Hundreds of rifles hang on the walls. Rows of pistols glint on shelves. Grenades dangle from hooks like bunches of green fruit waiting to be picked. There are bags of fertilizer, too, stacked up in one corner. I don’t want to think about their purpose, but somehow, I doubt they’re for trees.
Rhee removes a small pistol from a table, loads it, thumbs the safety on, and tosses it to me. I fumble, nearly dropping it. “Just hang onto this for now. You probably won’t have to fire it, but be prepared, just in case.” She hands me a holster, too.
I buckle the holster around my waist and shove the pistol into it. It takes me a minute; my fingers feel thick and clumsy.
We leave the armory, and she leads me to the room where we first entered the Citadel. My stomach gives an unpleasant lurch. Shana’s standing there, arms crossed over her chest. “Good,” Rhee says. “You got my message.”
My back stiffens. “She’s coming with us?”
“I need backup, just in case anything happens,” Rhee says to me. “And Shana is a good soldier. She’s been on over a dozen missions.”
Shana scowls. “So why is she here?”
“She’s here because she knows the person we’re looking for. If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to stay behind. I’ll pick someone else.”
Shana shoves her hands into her pockets and turns her back to me. “Just try to stay out of the way and don’t do anything stupid.”
I ignore the sting of indignation. “I won’t.”
“Ready?” Rhee asks.
This is all happening so fast. But then, every minute we wait around here is another chance for Ian to get caught. “Ready.”
“Activate your holomasks,” Rhee says.
The black hoop is still around my neck; I’d forgotten it was there. I turn it on. Shana reaches up to her throat, and a furry head snaps into place over her own. It’s vaguely skunk-like, but the muzzle is different. Some type of bear or rodent, I’m not sure.
The main door opens, groaning laboriously, and we step out into the cool, damp air of the Underground. The door creaks shut behind us as we move forward, single file, with Rhee in the lead and Shana behind her. Lights sputter here and there in the shadows as my feet splash through puddles.
We turn down a low-ceilinged stone tunnel. Dark, sluggish water runs down the center; we creep along one of the narrow ledges to the side. Rhee and Shana are shadows flowing through the darkness, graceful as foxes.
“Slow down,” I pant.
“How ’bout you speed up?” Shana calls over one shoulder. “You could stand to lose a few pounds anyway, princess.”
She’s trying to needle me. I clench my teeth, determined not to rise to the bait.
We stop. “Wait here,” Rhee says. She shimmies up a set of metal rungs on the wall and vanishes into the darkness. From above, I hear the scrape of wood on metal, and a shaft of faint light falls in. She climbs down a few rungs and beckons us with one hand.
I grip the first rung. The metal is slimy with algae and other things I don’t want to think about. I slip several times as I make my way up.
We emerge into a vast, empty warehouse with dim light filtering through a hole in the ceiling. Overhead, the rafters echo with the coos and rustles of pigeons. The white splatters of bird droppings cover the floor. At one end of the shadowy room is a huge, rusted iron door. Rhee shoves her shoulder against it. The hinges groan and resist, but she manages to prop it open a bit with her rifle, and we squeeze out through the gap, into the hazy gray afternoon. The cold city air fills my lungs. It’s tinged with the smell of smoke and oil, but after the stale, recycled air of the Citadel and the sewery stink of the Underground, it’s surprisingly refreshing.
A thick fog hangs over the city, and a cold, steady drizzle covers the streets with a reflective shine. Overhead, a holographic phoenix sails through the air, burning with brilliant sapphire flames. The words BE REBORN WITH PHOENIX ENERGY CRYSTALS trail after it, glowing pale blue, like a gas flame. People flow around us.
A small, inconspicuous gray car waits near the curb. Rhee pulls a key from her pocket and opens the door.
“Shotgun,” Shana calls.
I slide into the backseat. Beads of rain trickle down the windows and gaudy, multicolored buildings roll past outside as we drive. We park alongside a narrow street and get out. The drizzle has become a full-fledged rain sheeting down from the sky, plastering our coats to our skin. Rhee leans her rifle against one shoulder as she walks. How does she carry that huge thing around and make it look so effortless? Doesn’t she ever get tired?
She stops in front of a building—a perfect cube, large enough to fit several small houses inside, with glass walls. Or maybe Plexiglas. Rain runs down the sides like waterfalls, blurring the interior. A grinding bass beat pulses from within, vibrating in my bones, and ruby spotlights spin through the air and across the stage, where a group of men and women—wearing nothing but dinosaur holomasks—belts out something that seems to be more screaming than music. People gyrate on the dance floor, a sea of black leather, fishnet, and gleaming, sweaty skin. The whole club is totally transparent, save for the doors, which are lacquered bright red.
A man stands in front of the door, beefy arms crossed over his chest, eyes hidden behind mirrored shades. He looks like a bear who’s been shaved and squeezed into an expensive suit. Rhee exchanges a few quiet words with him, showing him the picture of Ian. He squints at it, then points up the street and says something which I can’t quite make out under the deafening beat. We keep walking.
“He can’t have gone far,” Rhee says. “We need to do a sweep of this area. We’ll cover more ground if we split up. You and Shana, check the rest of this street and meet me back here in twenty minutes.” She hands me a small black earpiece with an attached microphone, and I slip it in. “Contact me if you find anything.”
Shana touches her own earpiece and nods.
I’m not crazy about the idea of separating from Rhee, but I’m not about to argue with her, either. Rhee heads in one direction, Shana and I move in the other. A sleek black police car rolls past, and I tense, but the driver doesn’t slow. I remind myself that in Toronto, we don’t particularly stand out, even with our masks and guns. People move through the rain like phantoms, and I watch each face, scanning for a flash of red hair, a glimpse of familiar features. Each time I see a tall, thin figure, hope leaps in my chest, but each time, I’m disappointed.
Ahead lies an expanse of cracked pavement, illuminated by a single flickering streetlight. Forms huddle in sleeping bags and makeshift tents; some of them sit warming their hands over fires in metal bins. “What is this?” I whisper.
“Homeless camp. Obviously. Not all bums live in the Underground.”
“Calling them ‘bums’ is a little disrespectful, don’t you think?”
“I used to be one. I’ll call them whatever I damn well please.”
We pick our way slowly through the mass. At the sight of our guns, people draw away, as if we’re surrounded by a poisonous miasma. I smile, trying to reassure them, but I’m not sure they can even see it behind my mask. The masks do react to their wearers’ facial expressions, but beaks don’t mimic human smiles very well.
“Hey,” Shana calls, raising her voice, “anyone seen a skinny red-haired guy around here? ’Bout eighteen years old?”
Most of the people shake their heads, barely glancing up. One girl squints at us, hugging her knees to her chest. Then, without a word, she points to a dark, narrow alley. Suddenly, it’s difficult to swallow. My heart is caught in my throat. “Thanks,” I say. We make our way toward the alley, and I hear a low ripple of male laughter from within.
“Be ready,” Shana whispers.
“For
what?” I ask.
“Anything.” She cocks her pistol.
The alley is smothered in oily shadow; the streetlight’s weak glow can’t quite penetrate it. Then the clouds shift, allowing a hint of moonlight to peek through. A figure lies sprawled, motionless, eyes closed, face pale, blood leaking from one temple. He’s disheveled, his skin smudged with black dirt, but it’s unmistakably him. Three other figures crouch around him, rummaging through his pockets and the backpack beside him.
The cry leaps out of me before I can stop it: “Ian!”
The figures turn toward us. Shana raises her pistol. “Get the hell out of here.”
They scramble away like startled mice, hopping over the fence at the end of the alley.
“Check him for injuries,” Shana says.
I crouch beside Ian and stroke his cheek, smoothing his bloodstained hair away from his face. His eyes twitch beneath the lids, as if he’s trying to open them. “You’re okay,” I whisper. “You’re safe now.” I check him over quickly. Aside from the bump on his head, he doesn’t seem to be hurt. I raise my head. “Just a concussion, I think.”
“Come on,” Shana says. “Let’s get him out of here before—”
“Step away from him and put your guns down. Now.”
At the voice, a web of cold spreads under my skin, and I look up. A young man in a dark police uniform stands in the mouth of the alley, pointing a gun at us. His eyes are wide, his breathing ragged. A flash of panic goes through me.
“Now,” he says.
My mind races, trying to make sense of the situation. Is he alone? Was he on patrol when he happened to see us walk into the alley, carrying pistols? Maybe to him, it looks like we’re the ones who hurt Ian. “He’s our friend,” I say, speaking slowly and softly. “He was mugged. We came here looking for him. We’re not trying to harm anyone, I swear.”
“I said step away,” he says through clenched teeth.
Shana whips up her pistol and fires, blowing the gun from his hand. The weapon spins through the air and lands a few yards away. Before he can react, she lunges, shoves him up against the wall, and presses the gun to the underside of his chin, tipping his head back.
