Saga

by Connor Kostick

  “No, Your Majesty. I’ve never seen him.”

  Normally We can tell from the sweat and pulse of the person We are talking to whether or not they are lying. This mechanic is so nervous he seems to be lying even when he is telling the truth. If he is telling the truth.

  “Did you know your tank crew were criminals?” We show him the police station and their escape from it.

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  He knew something, not enough.

  “Do you know where they are now?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Do you have any means of contacting or locating them?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Do you know who was riding this airbike?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Why did your crew turn and run for the tank when they did?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

  We sigh, very disappointed. This fool has no connection to Michelotto. The assassin’s relationship must be with one or more of the others in the tank. When We consider the matter a little longer, a pattern begins to emerge. Cindella rescued this same group of children from prison. She came to see Us as if a prisoner of Michelotto, but, in fact, was there voluntarily, as his accomplice. How could he have captured her, given her peculiar nature? The logical conclusion is that Michelotto has been conspiring against Us for some time; he must have made an offer to the human to obtain her support. These children are probably important to him also, but why? Perhaps he hopes to mobilize the Anarcho-Punk Collective against Us. We chuckle aloud.

  Both of the men in the room look startled.

  “How long have you known those children?”

  “I can’t say as I know them. I just let Ghost sleep in the spare room sometimes, that’s all. They wouldn’t have even been in the tank if Valiant had given me a crew like they promised.”

  This is wasting Our time. The man is nothing.

  “Very well. You can go.”

  He stands up. Then he does something quite unexpected. He turns back to address Us once more.

  “What about my green card?”

  “You say you did not have the support of your guild?”

  “No. Had to do it all by myself.”

  We do not like his manner.

  “Then no one will object if we send you to jail. Grand Vizier, see to it and monitor all his visitors extremely carefully. When you have given him to his police escort, please return.”

  The Grand Vizier bows to me, then opens the door for the mechanic to leave. Two guards are just outside.

  “Hey! Wait up there. I earned that green card, fair and square. I built that tank up with my own hands. . . .”

  “How dare you speak to Us so disrespectfully!” We stand up and shout, amplifying the sound waves of Our voice until he flinches. “You are fortunate We do not shoot you on the spot. Perhaps We still will.” We pause. “No. Let us see who tries to make contact with you.”

  The Grand Vizier takes Our glance and pulls at the arm of the mechanic, who meekly follows him to the door.

  It is secure and dark here. Michelotto is out there. Why did he interfere in the aircar race? Those children are perfectly innocuous, except perhaps the one who goes by the name of Ghost. In the desolate streets of Our City are many homeless people, and those who no longer wish to work, who perhaps have become addicted to alcohol. All, at one time in their lives, were registered for a card, usually red, but have alienated themselves from functioning society. She must be one such person, but she does not fit the usual profile; she is far too young. There Our thoughts must leave the matter, until further data is available. We believe that Michelotto will make the next move. Our feelings are mixed. It is good to be in battle once more. But We recall the moment Cindella stood with a sword tip at Our throat, and shudder. It is not danger that is pleasant, but the taste of victory. Simply waiting does not suit Us. At the very least, We can stymie whatever plans Michelotto has for those children. We concentrate for a moment and set a trap for them.

  Our other concern is with the humans. There is a distinct falling off of new inhabitants of Saga. Of course, all the ones who have previously felt Our caresses are still here, but those who have yet to experience Our touch are fewer in number. They must have deduced that Saga was poisoning them. Good, now they will believe Us when We say that they will die if they destroy Saga. Soon Cindella or another will comply with Our demands. The sooner, the better. We will need all Our resources in order to defeat Michelotto.

  “Grand Vizier.” We open a communications channel.

  “Your Highness?”

  “Have the characters of five human beings brought to Us, one at a time. Not forcibly, for they will simply exit the world; instead, offer them a card promotion in return for their time.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  We need to find one willing to reprogram Us. One who will not take the opportunity to destroy Saga. In some ways, Cindella, while dangerous, would be ideal. For she has already proven that she is not willing to murder Us.

  Chapter 19

  HESLINGTON HOUSE

  The easiest way to get food, without having to take any risk that we might be recognized while shopping, was to order a huge delivery of pizza and ice cream to an abandoned office complex. When the airbike came, I paid the delivery girl, then entered the building. I went straight through to the back and out, to join the others in a place I considered relatively safe: a disused indoor amphitheater in a run-down part of the City. This was one of the arenas to which kids, and even sometimes grown-ups, used to come and battle their toy airships against each other. It was a craze some years ago, but no one did it anymore. Airboarding had taken over.

  It is strange, the positive effect on the mind of having an abundance of food on hand. We sat in a line along the edge of a great bowl, half-empty boxes of pizza strewn around us, all in excellent humor.

  “Can you believe it, huh?” Milan mused while chewing heartily at a slice. “Air-race champions. Show the race again, would you, Athena? I still need to see it to believe it.”

  A moment later, the projector began to play the newscast once more, in giant, ninety-foot images on the far wall, filling the chamber with green-and-red-tinged flickering light.

  “Oh no, skip this part.” Nathan blushed as once more he stumbled over his words about the anarchist colors of the tank.

  “Keep going, keep going. I’m on again in a second.” Milan waved his pizza slice around, barely keeping the topping on it. “Mmm,” he grunted happily as he saw himself speak: “This win is for all the anarcho-punks out there. We were the rebel entry, and we kicked ass!” It was strange to hear his voice echoing through the chamber and have him beside me, drumming his heels on the wall with enthusiasm for his recorded self.

  Then there was our escape, or at least the part of it up until we had shot the last of the cameras.

  “Again!” Milan threw away a box by its corner, watching it spin down to the rubble and junk at the bottom of the amphitheater. He reached for another box.

  “Just a second. There are some new threads on the APC forums. Jay and Carter have posted to say hi, good job, and stuff. They wish they’d been in there with us. I’m gonna thank them, yes?” Athena leaned forward so she could look along the line at us.

  “Sure.” Milan was expansive. “Tell them to organize a cele-bratory party.”

  “There already is one. A silent party.” Athena changed the output of the projector so we could see what she was looking at. The anarcho-punk community was really enthusiastic about our win; the forums were full of posts about how awesome our tank had been. There were threads over a thousand posts long, mostly just with a short comment like “Class!” Beneath every comment was the highly elaborate design of the name tag of the person who had sent the post. More often than not, people contributed to forums simply because their tag would then be on show. This wasn’t unreasonable, given the amount of artistic endeavor that went into creating a really go
od tag.

  “What’s that thread about injuries?” asked Nathan. “Did many get hurt?”

  Athena quickly scrolled through the original post and subsequent comments. “Looks like twenty-one in hospital: shock, laceration, six broken bones, sprains. Nothing serious.”

  “No,” Nathan agreed. “It could have been worse. Some of those vehicles came down pretty heavily. The helicopter, though. That was awful.”

  No one spoke; the sound of chewing ceased. True. Those people had died today, and we were all aware that the consequences were profound. In the end, it had not been our decision, and perhaps the others took comfort from that. But I had wanted the helicopter downed. When the crisis had come, I had been willing to kill to survive capture, and that was a new, sobering discovery about myself. I met it face-on, though, unflinching.

  “How’s Defiance doing?” Nathan asked, noticing Athena check once more on the number of registrations.

  “Nine thousand and seventeen. It’s down to less than a hundred an hour, but I think we’ll pass ten thousand sometime tomorrow.” She laughed. “That’s cool—we are now entitled to a member on the board of the Queen’s Palace Middle School.”

  “I went there. That is cool; imagine turning up to a meeting, with your board, your hair longer than your collar, and a really outrageous tag on your shirt. Mr. Lindsey would freak and he couldn’t do anything about it.” Nath brushed back his bangs with a smile.

  “You aren’t going to take any of the committee places?” Over the previous few hours, the rapid growth of Defiance had entitled the guild to places on the boards of hospitals, traffic control and residents’ committees, and schools in our area. It had displaced other guilds, forcing their representatives off, and it seemed a waste to me not to take them up, but it was Athena’s guild and her call. After all, I wasn’t even a member; I couldn’t register, seeing as how I had no identity.

  “No. The only seat I would take is on the High Council, and we’re going to have to do something nuclear to get up there.” She noticed my querying look. “The thing is, Ghost, half the people registering for Defiance are doing it as a protest. That’s what our charter says, right? If we start playing the game, joining the committees, we’re going to look like every other guild. They’ll be disillusioned.”

  “Go back to the party thread, would you, Athena?” Milan was tucking into the ice cream, with an occasional glance up at the far wall, on which Athena was projecting the pages of her notebook. He was bored with guild talk, which I suppose kind of proved Athena right.

  “The sector is the number of members of Spaw.” Milan was studying the clues to the venue for the party. “And the street number is the amount of blue in the APC flag. Spaw has six people in its band, right?”

  “Correct,” replied Athena.

  “Affirmative,” I spoke at the same time, still in tank-crew mode.

  “Wow, but that street name’s a toughie.” He stuck a spoon in his mouth and was a long time removing it. “The street number is the amount of blue in the APC flag? What’s that mean? The APC flag is red and black? They don’t have any blue at all.”

  “Mmmm.” Nathan waved his own spoon while he swallowed hurriedly. “Yes, but on the standard color chart, the particular red they use is two hundred forty-five parts red, zero parts green, and sixty-one parts blue.”

  Milan looked at him affectionately. “You know, you are the real deal. There’s a lot of kids out there who look more punk than you. No offense, but you look a bit nerdy, mate. Only in appearance, though. Inside, you are pure rock and roll. I’m proud to be in the same crew as you.”

  “Thanks, Milan, you, too.” Nathan blushed.

  When I came to think about it, Milan was right. Nath had been rock solid: no complaints about living rough, brilliant in the aircar race. He had surprised me.

  “So, Sixty-First Street in Sector Six. Call it up there, would you, Athena?” Milan glanced down the line. At the other end of the row, Athena was holding a slice of pizza in her left hand, well away from her precious computer, while with her right she navigated to the display Milan wanted. She looked up from the pale screen, her glasses changing color as the reflected turquoise light left them, leaned to one side to take a bite from the slice, then hunched back over the notepad. It made me smile to see her eating without breaking her concentration. She probably hadn’t even noticed herself take that mouthful of pizza.

  The image that was now displayed on the far wall was a street typical of the administrative sector of the City: rows of tall, stylish buildings, the sheen on the surface of their many windows reflecting the sky and the streetlights around them. Athena rushed the camera eye along Sixty-First Street. She paused when she came to a very striking circular tower building, whose floodlit interior gleamed with curving steel girders. The heart of the building was a hollow cone, with offices concentrated in a ring, thirty floors and more up toward the top, while at its base, a great hallway and reception area took up almost the entire ground floor. Heslington House. According to the label on the map, it was a government center for economic planning.

  “Mmm. Has to be. It looks perfect.” Milan looked up at us, seeking agreement.

  Athena nodded. “I’ll just check the rest of the sector all the same.”

  There were one or two other tall buildings that might possibly have been the site of the silent party, but none had the sleek design of Heslington House. A party there made a lot of sense, fashionwise.

  “Ready to go?” Milan threw away his empty ice-cream carton.

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “Jumping giant jeebies! Ghost, this is a party for us. We’re stars now. We can’t just miss it.”

  “Of course we can. If the police aren’t totally stupid, they will have figured out where the party is and also that there is a good chance we’ll be there.”

  “Yeah, point taken. But still, I want to risk it. If they raid, we clear out fast on our boards and meet back here. After all, imagine the buzz when we come in. My hair is standing up just thinking about it.” Milan ran his hand over his close-shaved scalp. “Come on, Ghost, just for an hour, say. Just to taste it.”

  “Milan, once you’re at that party, you’re not going to leave in an hour.”

  “True, true.” He shrugged. “But still. We have to go. Don’t we, mate?” He slapped Nath on the shoulder.

  “Actually, I think I would like to go. Sorry, Ghost.”

  I looked at Athena.

  “That building looks class.” She pushed her glasses back up her nose. “I’d like to see what the party looks like, at least. Plus we can drop a few Defiance tags around the place for people to see. Don’t worry, I won’t get lost. I’ll monitor for police activity and if it’s building up in any way around that sector, I’ll call it.”

  “Yeah.” Milan leaped up, a big grin on his face, unconsciously flexing his biceps. “That’s fair enough, right, Ghost? If Athena calls it, we all scram fast.”

  “I’m not happy, but I’ll come along. The only idea worse than going to this party is for us to split up.”

  “Great. What can go wrong?”

  “Milan, you idiot. You just can’t say things like that.” I was half-angry with him, for pushing us toward danger; the other half, though, was attracted to the party. After all, he was right: we would be stars.

  “Sure I can. Come on.” Milan kicked his board into life. “Last one to Heslington House has moldy underwear.”

  Silent parties usually took place in government buildings or the offices of major corporations. The APC would find a place where they could disable the security and then send out the word. We would all descend on the target building, each with our own music. From the outside you would see nothing; the windows were blanked. Nor would you hear anything. But inside, hundreds of people would be flowing around the venue, silently dancing to whatever was playing in their earphones. During the night, clusters of dancers would form wherever the BPM of the music they were moving to matched. Those who re
ally thought they were on the same wavelength would sometimes share each other’s music. That wasn’t for me, though; I found the experience uncomfortably intimate. Conversation was discouraged, a whisper at most. The point wasn’t just to avoid detection; it was to create a strange world, one where we were ethereal creatures, flitting through an environment that was normally reserved for top-level cardholders and policy makers.

  Heslington House was indeed the venue. Two powerful looking, middle-aged APC security men were nearby, in the shadows of the street. They nodded as we boarded toward them and slid open the door for us. If they recognized Milan and the others from the newscast, they did not show it on their somber faces.

  The inside of the building lived up to the map we had examined. We were in the huge space at the foot of a cone. Polished silver girders stretched up the full forty or so floors to where the cone narrowed, a circle for a roof. Since the girders were all curving, the effect was to form a whorl that spread out from the roof like the arms of a spiral galaxy. This image was enhanced by the lighting, installed, perhaps, just for the night, by the APC. Hundreds of very narrow white beams were pointing upward from the ground floor, their reflections creating tens of thousands of stars above us.

  Huge drapes some thirty feet high cut off the interior dancing area from the rest of the building. There were lights being played onto these also, and one of the images was of our tank crossing the finishing line. It was being looped over and over, Milan sitting across the cannon, waving. Nathan, Athena, and Arnie, all looking very happy, just below him. Good old Arnie. He was probably at an exclusive green nightclub right now, enjoying the attention and glory that he had longed for all his life.

  A ripple spread through the crowd of dancers. They had noticed our arrival and were turning to face us, nearest first, waving their hands at us, fingers spread wide. Silent applause. It was a good moment. The respect of our peers.