by Julian North
“I told you—this whole neighborhood smells like Otega’s feet,” Mateo grumbled. “And it’s going to stay that way unless we change it.”
“How do you plan on doing that?” Matias asked. “Loud talk ain’t changin’ anything. Riding bikes up and down Manhattan ain’t changin’ anything either. Nothing is changing anything. We live here our way, they live there their way. Deal with it.”
Mateo’s chin turned up. I’d seen the look before. Nothing good ever followed. “It’s that type of thinking that makes sure this place stays the way it is.”
“What do you suggest, hefe de corazones?” asked Matias.
“They put a boot on our throats, we put a boot on theirs. Their machines fire at us, we fire back. They steal our power, we steal theirs. They make us live in the dark, we do the same to them.”
Matias answered, but I couldn’t make out the words. Mateo, Kross, Inky—they were all shouting over one another.
I stepped into the middle of the room. “Stop. Now. Listen to me: violence is not the answer. You can’t fight the Authority and their machines. You can’t. You’ll end up dead.”
“You saying we keep doing nothing, then? We all can’t go to a fancy Manhattan school,” Mateo replied. “We need to fight if we want to be heard.”
I gazed at him, my beautiful, naive brother. A wave of sadness swept through me. I’d failed him so far, but there was still hope. If he didn’t get himself killed first. “We can’t be saved by the same evil that enslaves us.”
Mateo scoffed. It was an ugly sound, one that hurt inside, coming from my brother. “Grand words from the girl from the richie school, hermana. Sounds like they’re from one of those fancy books you read. You get to eat real food there, you got a travel pass, you got a richie boyfriend. No wonder you don’t wanna rock the boat. But the rest of us still live in the barrio.”
The words hit me in the gut. My face flushed. “Better grand words than stupid ones. Even if you’ve given up on your own life, that doesn’t mean the rest of us have.”
The room went quiet.
Kortilla’s father stepped into the center of the room. Chasms crisscrossed his forehead as he fixed Mateo with a scowl. A faded image of the words patria o muerte snuck out from the sleeve of his shirt, testimony to the dangerous man he once was. Homeland or death.
“You are under my roof, eating my food—you keep your manners.” He put an arm around my shoulder. I felt foolish, not least because I was taller than him. “This is your sister, Mateo. She’s got a chance to get out. Be proud. And listen when she speaks good sense.” He swept the room with his eyes. “That goes for the rest of you as well.”
Anger flashed in Mateo’s eyes. His blood was running hot—a family trait. But whatever bitter words were on his tongue he managed to keep to himself. Indigo Gonzales was a man of few words. But when he, a former member of the Cuban security services, spoke, people listened. This was his place. Otega and Matias would back him. It didn’t matter if they agreed with him or not.
“Sorry, Dee,” Mateo managed without looking at me. “I’m happy for you. You know I am. And I know that those fancy boys mean well with their little clinic.”
“No es nada, Mateo.”
“Why don’t you walk your sister home, Mateo?” Mr. Gonzales suggested. “Aba must be worried about both of you.”
My brother nodded, looking everywhere but at me.
I hugged Kortilla and said goodbye to the rest of them before heading toward the door. I stood in the hallway, impatient, as Mateo huddled with Inky and Kross at the threshold. Only when I started to leave by myself did my brother follow me out, Inky and Kross trailing us.
Mateo fell in beside me, his coat pulled tight, his hands deep in his pockets. His boys trailed about ten feet behind us. There were no cars on the road, but a few people hurried along on the sidewalks. The massive specter of an enforcement drone loomed at the end of the street. We passed underneath its shadow, glancing upward as we hurried along. The power was still out. The place had the feel of impending disaster.
Mateo kept quiet, not even looking at me, until we were three blocks from home.
“I know it hasn’t been easy,” he said in a strangely tender voice. My heart sped up.
“What hasn’t been easy?”
“Being my sister. Working hard, thinking you had to save me. All that hard work in school, and on the track. I realize that you thought you were doing it for me.”
His words were laced with regret. I looked over to find Mateo staring hard at the cracked ground. I could see only enough of his face to know there was pain there.
“You’re my brother.”
The wind picked up as we walked. We made a turn onto a short street dotted by tiny family-run stores, their roofs topped by rickety lean-to dwellings and tents. Ugly alleys filled with garbage and lurkers separated the buildings. I’d practically grown up here. Two more blocks to go. Another metal monster sat midblock, watching us and the few others who braved the streets.
“You’re special, Dee. Mom knew it too.”
I bit back the protest that came to my lips. “Mom knew it because she did it to me. Though I don’t know why. I wish she would’ve told me.”
Mateo picked his head up, his eyes fixed on the rotating turrets of the enforcement drone as it watched us on behalf of its masters across the river. His pace slowed.
“I didn’t mean that… trill thing. I meant what’s inside you. Your spirit. Your strength. That didn’t come from any highborn gene crap. That came from Mom.” He released a heavy breath. “But I’m not you—”
“Mateo, stop.”
“Listen, Dee. I’m not you. You are meant for something big. I think deep down you know it too, but you don’t want to admit it. I think you’re happy where you are. Too happy. But this place is dying. And I need to stop that. It’s who I am. You tried hard to help me. But I’m glad I got a short fuse of life left. Because it makes it easier to do what I have to do.”
He stopped walking. His hands were out of his pockets. My heart was beating hard, my spider-sense ticking.
“Mateo, what the hell are you talking about?”
He finally showed me his eyes. I nearly choked on the regret etched there. And the madness at their edges. He turned back toward his henchmen.
“Let’s do it.”
I followed his gaze back to Inky and Kross, then toward the enforcement drone.
My brother reached inside his jacket. “Sorry, Dee. This is the only way.”
He yanked out a force pistol, its barrel gleaming black. An angry scarlet light indicated the weapon was active. The weapon’s exterior glittered like Mateo had just taken it from the factory floor. He pointed it at the enforcement drone, pulling the trigger as crimson finder beams clicked onto both of our chests. I tried to tackle him, but I wasn’t quick or strong enough. I pulled him off balance, but he wasn’t as frail as he looked—he stayed on his feet. He always could take me in a fight. Damn my big brother. He fired a blast at the drone—the sound a pounding gavel proclaiming the end of anything resembling a normal life for him. And me.
Mateo shoved me toward the nearest alley with a burst of raw strength I didn’t think he still had. He followed hard on my heels.
“Run, dammit.”
“You idiot!” I cried, the terrible realization of what was happening overwhelming me. Four strong hands grabbed hold of me. I lashed out, but they dragged me into the alley, out of the drone’s firing zone.
More sounds came out of my mouth. Not words—curses I’d heard on the street but never dared utter. I’d never had cause. I’d never been betrayed like this before.
Mateo let off another blast from the alley before ducking back for cover. Flashes erupted on the ground just a few feet from where we stood. Several more impacts sent dust and rock flying into the alley. I shook off the hands that held me, smashing into my fool of a brother, wrestling him for the gun—the damn gun he thought he could use to fight the unstoppable.
“Daniela, stop,
” Inky shouted as he tried to pull me off. “He’s doing this for us.”
As I struggled against Inky and Kross’s desperate pull, the rumble of a metallic monster on the move erupted. The ground shook. More fire came at us—not the scattered shots from a few moments ago, but a fusillade, as the drone’s projectile spray guns were unleashed. The aged concrete of the building was no match. The walls around us cracked, ground down like wood through a mill. Particles of concrete and dust rained down on us.
Mateo shoved me further into the alley. “Get out of here.”
I grabbed his hand to make sure he was with me. Hand in hand, we ran. It was that or die.
A barely conscious lurker lay on the filthy ground, mouth open, eyes staring at nothing. Emaciated arms grabbed at my foot as we dashed away from the rain of destruction. When we reached the far edge of the filthy passage, the tumult abruptly quieted. But not for long.
Another shot rang out. It was a jolting percussion far louder than the humming surge of a force weapon discharge—an old projectile gunshot. Another followed, louder and higher-pitched than the first. A different gun.
The left corner of my brother’s mouth curled upward. “It’s started. Get clear, Dee. It’s done.”
“What the hell is going on?” I shouted at him. “Why—”
“It was the only way to light the spark,” my brother said. “The only way to wake people up.”
I shook my head. “This is loco. You’ve killed yourself and me…”
He stepped out of the alley, onto the next block. He waved for me to join him. “Come see.”
I obliged, my hands balled into fists.
Amazingly, people were coming onto the street rather than running. The rooftops quickly grew crowded as people left their dwellings to survey what was happening. Below, men and women emerged from the darkened shops and homes, many with clubs or even guns in their hands. I heard several more shots. At least one was a force weapon discharge. Where had they come from?
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“People have had enough.”
“How does shooting some useless bullets get people—”
“I’m sorry, sis, more than you can ever know,” Mateo said. “Please remember that. And that I’ll miss you.”
He stepped backward, then ran off into a crowd of people that his insanity had somehow summoned into the street. I took two steps after him before Inky grabbed me. I shook him free, but Kross joined him before I could work up any momentum.
“Let me go, you jack-As. Where the hell is he going? He’s going to get people killed.”
Inky shook his head sadly. “Maybe. But first he’s going to get them to fight.”
Chapter 7
The barrio erupted.
Gunshots came from rooftops, from dark alleys, from cracks in boarded-up storefronts. The Authority’s drones answered with directed pulse fire at the gunmen and correction pellets for anyone else foolish enough to try their luck on the streets. People like me.
Inky shouted something about protecting me right before I slammed my foot into his shin and took off. He went down screaming. He deserved it. But not as much as Mateo did.
I had to find my brother. I had to put a stop to this. If he wouldn’t listen to reason, I would trill him. This madness must end.
The drones weren’t everywhere—not yet. I hugged the edges of the sidewalks, ducking in to doorways and even taking my chances in the occasional alleyway. A few store owners opened their gates to provide temporary shelter. Several people actually recognized me from the track meet—Kortilla hadn’t been kidding. It gave me the chills. But no one had seen Mateo.
I searched in vain for almost half an hour, until the Authority reinforcements arrived. I stepped out of the doorway to find two metal beasts turning the corner on tracked wheels, their crimson finder beams searching for targets. I dove into an alleyway just as a pair of correction pellets struck the ground where I’d stood moments before.
I ran through the alley, the ground slick with mud and filth, the air putrid. Another enforcement drone rolled down the next street, its sensors peering into buildings and alleyways as it moved. I ducked behind an overflowing dumpster as it rumbled past, its spray guns twitching anxiously. Once the monster had gone, I peered onto the street, wondering at my odds of making it across. The drone hadn’t left the street. It had merely repositioned itself. I’d still have to cross its path. This was one of dozens of enforcers flooding the area. I’d never reach home, but Nythan’s clinic was only a street away. Underground and windowless, it would be a good place to hole up. If I could get to the other side of the road.
I was about to make a break for it when a car screeched around the corner. It was an older model with a dented metal chassis. It had been painted an ugly shade of chrome; smoke spewed from its exhaust. The car sped toward the giant machine. The windows had been painted black, so I couldn’t tell if anyone was inside or not.
The drone moved one of its main cannons into position and fired. A brilliant torpedo of light flashed, punching a bowling ball-size hole in the vehicle’s hood, obliterating the engine. The drone’s spray guns opened fire next, raining explosive projectiles onto the car. It burst into flames, then detonated in a flash of blinding whiteness. I covered my eyes, but too late. My pupils burned. Whatever was in the car wasn’t a conventional explosive.
I looked away, blinking, waiting for my eyesight to return. I saw only white with a few black dots. I blinked again. My chest trembled. I still couldn’t see anything. I put my hands to my eyes and fought the urge to run, as if speed could help me escape the horror around me. I went to my knees instead.
The sound of force weapon fire cut through my panic. The blasts came one after another, overlapped just enough that I was certain they came from different weapons. The noise that followed wasn’t something I’d heard before: an ugly screech mixed with the shattering of alloy. My skin prickled as if someone had scraped their nails across a window. Weapons fired again. Claxons sounded, angry and distressed. A spray gun erupted. My blood turned cold. I reached inside myself, to that reservoir of strength, for the icy power and the will to calm myself. I shut my eyes tight, then opened them again. A blurred image of fire greeted me, as if I were looking at a mirage. The acrid odor of smoke assailed my nostrils.
Another combustion engine roared from somewhere close. The sound grew louder. More force rifles fired. I saw the pulses—brilliant flashes streaking toward the pile of flame and smoke and metal. The enforcement drone, I realized. It was ablaze. Rubber tires screeched from down the street. The ground rumbled.
“Take cover!” yelled a voice from a rooftop.
My spider-sense told me the same thing. I inched further behind the dumpster, my arms wrapped around my head. Even without seeing it, I knew the car was headed directly for the enforcement drone. A short burst from a barely functioning spray gun echoed, but it wasn’t enough. The motorized relic of yesterday smashed into the mechanized monster of today. The result was an earthquake of destruction. Debris shot into the sky like fireworks. Larger pieces smashed to the ground in a storm of thundering metal. Amid the tumult, from rooftops and windows and through walls, came cheers.
“Wi trihouse!”
“We triumph,” in the language of these streets.
“Vamos!” came the Spanish answer.
The cry spread across the rooftops like fire on dry tinder. I found a faint smile on my own lips as my vision cleared enough that I could discern the smoldering hulk before me.
There had been riots in BC before. Lots of them. People seethed from a lack of everything, including hope. Protests, marches, and violence were all a part of life in this place. But never anything like this. We’d never taken out a drone before. I shook my head in wonder at the sight.
My path across the street was now clear, at least for the moment. I dashed to the other side, past the smoldering wreck, then onto the next street. A dozen men and several women had taken cover behind a quartet of
overturned cars. Another drone approached their position. At least three of the men had force rifles, the rest held firearms and even pipes. I doubled back and headed down a different street, the echo of weapon fire ringing in my ears.
Aerial drones appeared in the sky. Not surveyors. Larger, four-engine models—a bluekent, and others I didn’t recognize. But I was certain they were combat models. The highborn are angry.
I weaved through the crowd that had gathered outside an empty storefront. More people were inside. Most had some kind of crude weapon in their hand. I heard muttering that “more weapons were coming.”
“Daniela Machado!” someone called.
“Runner girl! We fight!” yelled another.
I didn’t turn. I didn’t slow down. I wanted no part of this. The funeral dress I wore made me stand out.
I turned a corner onto Hughes Avenue, where the clinic was located. A drone rumbled up and down the street. If a machine could look angry, this one did. A hundred beams of light extended from its turrets in every direction. Its gun ports waggled. An annoyed claxon sounded every minute, followed by an ominous warning.
“The Five Cities Protection Authority has declared a total curfew in this area. Any person on the street during curfew will be fired upon. The use of lethal force has been authorized against violators.”
I was so close. The clinic was in the basement of an old movie house, commonly referred to as “the maze” because the cavernous interior was packed beyond rational organization with every sort of petty vendor and desperate charlatan imaginable. Unfortunately, the building was located midblock. There was no way the drone wouldn’t notice, and likely kill me, if I made a break for it. More of the Authority’s flying machines were arriving. Soon they would begin sweeping the back alleys for stragglers. I had to find shelter somewhere.
I took a measured look at the rusted iron rungs that had been hammered into the crumbling brick façade of the building next to me. Just about every street in BC had makeshift ladders where squatters could access the building’s rooftop. But top dwellers were notoriously territorial. Their homes had no locks, or even walls, and there was nothing for sale up there. Strangers were not just unwelcome, they were a threat. Still, it was better than facing the enforcers or staying where I was. I began to climb. The rust flaked off onto my hands as I moved up the metal loops.
