Zala stared. She’d heard that there was unrest, but nothing on this scale. ‘Is the funeral going to go ahead?’
‘I don’t think they’d start anything at a funeral in the middle of Alexandria. Just … try and get out of here before the Council extend the quarantine.’
Something rattling away in the back of Zala’s mind clicked. She opened her portable terminal and typed ‘Selina Mullur’ into a search engine. A contact directory service came up, listing the address of Zala’s assumed identity.
‘She lives at 537 Kaladi. Where’s that?’
Polina looked aghast. ‘It’s right in the middle of Naj-Pur. They’re not going to let you out. You’re labelled high-risk for infection.’
Zala sank back into the sofa. ‘Sorry, Polly, it looks like I’m sticking around to look into the virus. I guess it can’t be helped.’
Polina strode back over to her. ‘Zala, promise me that you’ll stay out of anywhere where it seems like there could be trouble.’
‘You know I’m not going to stick to that promise.’
Polina grabbed her shoulders and pulled her into a position where she was looking her straight in the eye. ‘Zala, they’re shooting people on both sides. The violence is escalating. There are parts of this city that simply aren’t under the Council’s control any more. I don’t care what you think you can do with this virus. Right now, the Naj-Pur and Surja districts are the last places on earth you want to be.’
Chapter 2
ALICE AMIRMOEZ CROUCHED with her two children in a dark alleyway in the Naj-Pur district and tried her best to hide the blood on her sleeve from them. Every so often, she checked around the corner, to confirm that they were still undetected, but for the most part she and her children simply hid behind an industrial bin, out of view of anyone walking past the alley. Her oldest, Ria, cradled her sleeping brother, Zeno, in her arms, but Alice was terrified that he’d wake up and start crying. The last thing they needed was attention drawn to them. All it would take was some thug with a gun. Although this area had its troublesome periods, following massive government and private investment it had been safe even after dark for a while. Then the virus broke out, and the riots happened, and the designation of Naj-Pur as a ‘high-infection area’ trapped hundreds of thousands of scared, angry people here to live, disempowered and gripped with the fear of death. If someone decided she looked too well fed, too well off … the thought made her sick with fear.
She hated that Kahleed had chosen this place as their meeting point. Of course, for him, as the leader of the New Cairo Liberation Corps, the group at the forefront of the fight against the government, anywhere considered not too dangerous for normal police patrols was somewhere he could get arrested, or worse. This in turn didn’t change the fact that anywhere that was considered too dangerous for normal police patrols was probably too dangerous to be a meeting place.
Alice felt a crust of dried blood on her palm. She scratched it off with her other hand and tried hard not to think about whose blood it was.
Her portable terminal flashed. She raised her wrist and turned it on. The holographic screen popped up a message from Kahleed in the air in front of her, which simply read:
>Where are you?
Alice paused for a moment. She had known Kahleed ever since her husband, Jacob, had introduced them ten years ago. The two men had become partners when Kahleed’s terminal-building business had adopted an early form of a business-targeted operating system Jacob had created, for a contract to outfit the New Cairo Democratic Council with custom terminals. This work relationship then became a close friendship, born from their shared roots growing up in the poorer parts of Naj-Pur, which in turn led to an advocacy group to help revitalize the most poverty-stricken parts of the city. They had even stuck together when the Soucouyant virus began to make itself known and the lobbying for aid and evacuation had turned into something more destructive. Her husband would have trusted Kahleed with his family’s life in a heartbeat.
But her husband was gone.
>The alleyway between Talim’s and that old clothing shop on Falja. We’re hiding behind a big bin. Come quickly.
Moments later, Kahleed appeared. In his early forties, he was a powerfully built man, with strong, broad features, dark brown skin. His tightly curled black hair and beard were far less well kept now than they had been when he was just a business executive. His eyes were bloodshot, and his voice wavered as he said, ‘Alice. I’m so sorry about—’
Alice forced a neutral tone and replied with a curt ‘I can’t discuss it right now. Just get me to the safe house and make sure my children are looked after. We need to get out of here.’
Ria looked up, still cradling the baby. She’d been so strong, Alice thought. She still couldn’t bring herself to tell her daughter what had happened. Kahleed nodded, scooped up Zeno, and turned on his heel, murmuring ‘Come.’
Alice followed him, clutching Ria’s hand. She tried to set off at a brisk pace, but Kahleed lightly touched her on the shoulder as they walked and said, ‘It’s okay. You’re in no hurry now. You’re with me. That means something here.’
So they walked along narrow streets lined with a mix of brick houses and some boarded-up shops. Shards of glass in broken windows glinted in the lamplight. The curfew was imminent and people were hurrying along the streets trying to get home. Although eyes followed them intently in a way that made Alice uncomfortable, just as frequent were nods of recognition or mutterings of ‘Good man …’ One old woman called out to Kahleed and, when he stopped, said, ‘You keep fighting for us, son,’ and shook his hand.
Alice stared ahead, holding Ria close. She had spent the last few weeks watching news reports of violence, riots and shootings, all part of an uprising she wanted nothing to do with.
They’re not the ones that gunned down Jacob, a small voice in the back of her mind said. Her mouth went dry.
The road they now walked down was lined with tall terraced buildings, all scarred grey concrete and dirty windows. Bursts of colour came from huge illuminated advertising screens attached to the frontages. As Alice passed a convenience store, on the screen above multicoloured streaks wrapped themselves around a silhouetted figure dancing, a colourfully packaged bottle in its hand. ‘FEST,’ it proclaimed, ‘LIVE MORE.’ Beneath it, a responsible-drinking warning and the FanaSoCo corporate logo flashed. The massive billboard was the only thing on the street not covered in graffiti.
Kahleed turned sharply down a long, dark driveway between two dilapidated terraces. At the end of the path was the back of an abandoned clothing factory. It wasn’t so long ago that the Preserve Our Manual Jobs Act had passed through the Council, guaranteeing that if a union could successfully prove that human interaction or participation was necessary for a job, that job could not be automated and pay could not be reduced. Then, the people of Naj-Pur had cheered for the Council and this factory had been full of grateful workers. What machine replacement could not get rid of, the risk of getting the Soucouyant virus or, worse, transferring it to your loved ones, had. The factory had been closed for weeks.
Kahleed gently passed Zeno back to his mother, took a set of metal keys out of his pocket, unlocked a door and led them into a narrow, musty-smelling hallway. The unpainted concrete walls disappeared off into pitch darkness as what little light the terraces gave off faded. Alice felt Ria press herself up against her. Kahleed selected another key, opened a door in the wall and muttered, ‘Home, sweet home.’
Through the door was a staircase that led down to a basement full of people. As Kahleed walked down, the talking and bustle of activity stopped and the basement’s inhabitants turned towards him. ‘I’ve brought Jacob’s family with me. They’re safe.’ He looked over his shoulder to Alice and motioned for her to come in.
The space beneath the factory was huge, seeming to match the main floor above in size and lack of decoration. Most of the area was given over to a main room filled with rows and rows of bunk beds, in anticipation of mor
e fugitives. This confined the primary operations of the NCLC to a smaller room filled with personnel, weapons and equipment, and makeshift living facilities. However, its modest size belied a base of operations entirely capable of punching above its weight.
In one corner of the room and spread out along its walls was an impromptu command centre made up of an array of computer terminals, their holographic monitors showing communications with outsiders, blueprints of buildings, or security camera feeds. These terminals monitored huge amounts of incoming data, all of which could be sent to the base’s real powerhouse: a central command station, at the intersection of the two rows, capable of directing large-scale military-level combat operations. Flanked by skilled operators feeding in information, a leader could run a war from that terminal.
Crowded around the command station was a group of tired-looking men and women who were staring at a large hologram showing the entire city. A wrinkled, bearded man in a dark green hoodie approached the newcomers and said, ‘I’m Maalik. Your husband was good to us.’
One by one, a few others from the weary group introduced themselves. Suman Chaudhri, a fat, pimply hacker and technician who sat at the command station. ‘The twins’, Anisa and Thana Yu, two tall, heavily scarred women. Hoshi Smolak, a small, rotund accountant with smudged glasses and a stammer, and Serhiy Panossian, who couldn’t have been more than twenty. Kahleed’s partner, Tal Surdar, needed no introduction, and nodded respectfully. The last to introduce herself was Nataliya Kaur, a muscular woman with cropped hair and a serious expression. Most, however, stayed busy at the terminals, engrossed in whatever plans the group had going, their eyes flicking between the main terminal screen and their own.
Alice turned to Kahleed. ‘Can someone please help me find somewhere for my children to sleep?’ she said.
Kahleed looked at Nataliya and motioned towards the children. She nodded, fixed a smile on her face, turned towards them, and whispered, ‘Come with me, Ria, we’re going to find you and Zeno a nice place to go to bed.’ Alice watched as the young woman led them off. As they walked with Nataliya towards the bunks, she heard Ria ask, ‘Can we make Zeno a cot out of the spare pillows?’
‘That sounds like an excellent idea,’ Nataliya replied, still smiling, and they set about doing so. Alice watched, aloof, as they piled pillows on top of one another, and stacked them high enough around Zeno to form walls.
‘You look exhausted,’ said Maalik.
‘Two hours ago I found my husband’s body. He’d been shot, by the police or the Security Force, because …’
She felt the words reverberate around her. The first time she had said it out loud.
‘Because of his involvement with you.’
Maalik looked apologetically at her and continued, ‘I could regale you with justifications, that he knew the risks and felt they were worth it, but I can’t imagine you care about any of that right now. He was a great man. He risked his life to try and help those less fortunate to escape the disease and the Council. He lost that life as a result. But we owe it to Jacob to get you and your family out of the city. You’re right. His blood is on our hands.’
The look on Maalik’s wrinkled face was genuinely penitent.
Alice raised her forearm and showed the bottom of her shirt sleeve, mud-coloured with dried blood, and weakly replied, ‘I figure I probably outdo you in that department.’
Kahleed gently pulled her arm back down to her side. She felt as though someone had hollowed out her gut.
Jacob was dead. Shot.
Tal came over, a steaming mug of coffee in hand, which he gave to her. Her hands were trembling slightly as she took it.
‘Getting you and the children out of the city will be difficult and may take some time,’ Kahleed told her. ‘Go to them and try to sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.’
A woman who had been too busy at her terminal to introduce herself suddenly yelled out, ‘We’ve got him!’
As Kahleed ran over to her she turned her head and looked up at him, the movement revealing a cable plugged into the iris of an artificial right eye, the cable head pointed in the same direction as her gaze. ‘I’m still tracking them, but he’s in the bag. He’ll be here in a little while, assuming there’s no one set up to intercept.’
‘Is there any indication that they found our escape route?’ Kahleed asked.
‘No, sir. It’s well hidden, and the people running it are plenty reliable,’ the woman replied.
Kahleed gripped her shoulder. ‘Today, Juri, we may have tipped the balance of power away from the Council and the corporations and back towards the people. It has been a terrible day, but we may just have secured our most valuable bargaining chip.’
Chapter 3
THRONGS OF PEOPLE packed the hallways of the New Cairo Democratic Council building. Administrative staff and cabinet workers scurried between offices, eyes on their portable terminals, occasionally bumping into one another. Reporters swarmed towards every passing councillor, desperate for a quote on the day’s debates. Councillor Ryan Granier watched through the small peephole in his door. He’d expected a crowd, but this was getting out of hand.
His office was a large room, with enough space for its regular ten researchers and campaign workers. Old campaign posters, photographs and frantically scribbled ‘to-do’ lists lined every piece of the walls. The only respite was the window, which provided an ample view of the Chamber Gardens and the mass of reporters filling that too. Terminal screens displayed voter databases, desktop publishing software and pages of text from library services. His staff sat around the office in varying levels of exhaustion. One or two were typing away at computer terminals, but most were staring at newscasts, taking in the coverage of the day’s debates. They’d used good photographs of him, dating from his campaign, back when he was the foremost young upstart on the New Cairo political landscape. He stood behind a podium, tall, fit and proud, delivering a speech to a baying crowd of supporters. He was slightly offended that the pictures had been doctored to make his artificially darkened skin a more proletarian shade, but he appreciated the effect it gave. Scrolling text at the bottom read:
COUNCILLOR GRANIER MAKES VALIANT LAST STAND TO STOP QUARANTINE, NUMBERS AGAINST HIM.
The feel of the office was one of victory. It had been a hard fight, but the researchers and communications staffers were at last sure that tomorrow’s final vote would dismiss the quarantine bill. Local councillors had been inundated with letters from constituents opposing the quarantine. The black marks against the names of those who voted for it would make them easy pickings for opponents in future elections. No amount of corporate campaign contributions could outweigh the knowledge in constituents’ minds that their representatives kept them in a cage, like animals. Or so the logic went.
Ryan Granier knew different. The vote was already lost.
The elections weren’t for three years and in that time, with the quarantine in place, the virus would be eradicated by hook or by crook, all emergency measures would then be lifted and the Council’s decision would be vindicated. Without a quarantine, New Cairo would be abandoned and the virus would spread to the rest of the world. The charge of constraining New Cairo would not hurt the councillors as badly as the charge of destroying it. On top of this, the biggest players in the Council were all directly or indirectly linked to the major conglomerates that made their home in New Cairo, and the conglomerates’ money mattered. Their money bought campaigns. Their money bought votes and those bought positions. More importantly, political loyalty to the Council heavyweights would be repaid in kind. It was all about picking the battles that mattered and Ryan knew that, to the High Councillor, this battle mattered enough to go to war over. The councillors who had promised Ryan this vote would not keep their word. He hadn’t expected them to, nor had he exerted energy or resources towards making them. What was important was that his show of resistance did nothing to stop the bill passing.
But he kept this knowledge to himself.
The speaker implant in his cochlea beeped. He brought his wrist up and opened his portable terminal. The High Councillor wanted to see him in the now deserted main chamber of the building. What he intended to be a mutter came out as an exclamation of ‘Oh shit.’ Several of his staff stirred from their rest to find out what had happened, immediately fearful of even more work.
‘What is it?’ Zareen Charmchi, Ryan’s head of staff, asked.
‘The High Councillor wants to chew me out in the main hall.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘He thinks you’re going to beat the quarantine bill. This is really good news!’
Ryan forced himself to grin. ‘I think if that were the case he’d be telling me to meet him in the alley out back, in front of the big men with guns.’
‘You could take them. Go knock ’em dead, boss,’ Zareen said, as Ryan opened the main door out of the office.
Immediately he was beset by reporters, screaming questions at him. His voice rang out. ‘You get three questions today. Decide among you who’ll ask the best ones.’ He needed the publicity they had to offer far more than they needed him, but they didn’t know that.
‘Time’s up, ladies and gentlemen, your first question please.’
One man stepped forward. He was thin and unsuccessfully hiding a bald head with a poor comb-over. ‘What repercussions do you think the vote going in your favour will have on the city?’
That was a good question, or at least a tricky one for Ryan to answer in a way that would benefit him. Eventually he decided on something empty and said, ‘I think – or at least I hope – we’ll see a change in the political climate of these chambers. I think that the councillors who vote for the quarantine, if they get defeated, will gain a greater understanding of the power that comes with truly representing the people who voted for them, as opposed to representing the people who funded them. And I think I’ll be in trouble with the senior councillors.’
The Hive Construct Page 3
