The Block

by Ben Oliver

  I’ve never been drunk before. When I was twelve, my friends and I shared a single bottle of beer that one of them had stolen from his dad. We all pretended like we were drunk, stumbling around, laughing like Ebb addicts, but this is real. Part of me hates the sensation of being slightly outside of my character—slightly electric, slightly ahead of myself and few steps behind—and part of me loves it.

  We move to the door, the ground seeming always to be half a step farther beneath my feet than I’m expecting.

  “Getting drunk was not smart!” I announce in a loud whisper. “I mean … I mean, what were we thinking? We’re about to run for our lives and … and we got drunk!”

  “You got drunk,” Sam replies, not looking back. “I’m perfectly sober, thank you. Try to focus, Luka.”

  “Yep,” I say, and then laugh as I stumble over my feet.

  “Luka, will you shut up? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of the city, about to do something very dangerous!”

  “Yeah,” I say, shaking my head, trying to clear away the fog. “Yeah, you’re right. What’s the plan?”

  “You’ll see,” she whispers, resetting her rifle.

  “Shouldn’t I know the plan?” I ask. “I mean, it seems pretty important for me to at least know the basics …”

  “Shh,” Sam says, opening the front door until there is just enough space between it and the frame for her to see out.

  I fall silent, staggering back one step and stifling a laugh.

  I see Sam taking several deep breaths, as if she’s psyching herself up for something. I’m about to ask if she’s okay when she throws open the door and fires six rounds from her USW rifle.

  “Quickly, Luka!” she hisses, and then disappears into the street.

  “What … what’s happening?” I mutter, and stumble after her.

  Out in the street, four soldiers lie dead. A USW round has hit one of them right in the mouth and the toothless grin left on her face sends a shiver down my spine.

  Sam is dragging one of the dead soldiers by the heels into the pub. “Get the others,” she seethes as I stare dumbly at the corpses.

  “Yeah, right, okay, sure,” I say, and grab the toothless one under the arms, pulling her inside.

  We get the others into the pub, and Sam begins to undress the female soldier. I get the idea and take the body armor off one of the men, his dead eyes staring up into nothing.

  I hop up and down as I force my feet into the soldier’s boots, which are at least two sizes too small for me, but they look to be the closest fit. Sam watches with an exasperated look on her face.

  “Are you done?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, patting at the uncomfortable bulletproof body armor that is supposed to decrease USW round impact by up to 14 percent. “I think so.”

  “Final Gods,” she sighs. She walks over to me, unclips the chest plate, and spins it around.

  “Oh, that’s much better,” I say, grinning stupidly.

  “Okay,” she breathes, “this is the easy part: We walk out into the city as if we own the place, then we wait at Hollie Park Station, get on the city train going west, and get off near Old Town; from there we can access the sewer and get back to the library.”

  “So, we just walk right into the middle of the city?” I ask.

  “Pretty much.”

  “Great,” I say, throwing my hands up and smiling brightly, “why not.”

  “If we come across soldiers … well, we’ll improvise.”

  I pick up one of the soldier’s USW guns. “What about this?” I ask, nodding toward the LucidVision headset I’ve tucked under one arm.

  “Fuck,” Sam mutters, “give it to me.”

  I lean toward her and she grabs the headset, resting it on the bar and examining it; then she lifts it into the air and smashes it down onto the hard wood with all her might. The headset shatters, detaching from the arm. Pieces of metal and plastic fly in all directions, along with circuit boards and wires. Sam digs through the debris.

  “One of these things has got to be the processor,” she says.

  “Igby said it was silver and about the size of a thumbnail,” I offer.

  “Practically everything inside this thing is silver and about the size of a thumbnail!” Sam replies, pocketing the pieces of the electronic device that look important. Then she slips out into the street.

  I follow, trying to walk confidently, as if I belong out here in this uniform, but my inebriated legs seem to be leaden and reckless.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper, feeling sweat beginning to bead on my forehead, despite the cool evening air.

  “Shut up,” Sam says, and I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from talking.

  We move through the dark city, our shadows stretching out long behind us and then in front as we pass below streetlights.

  I try to focus on my movements, try to figure out how to walk normally, but the alcohol is messing with the signals from my brain to my limbs, and suddenly this strikes me as funny and I start to laugh.

  “Oh shit,” Sam mutters.

  I look up and see what she’s seeing: two Alt soldiers approaching us from up ahead. My laughter dies away immediately.

  “Any sign of them?” one of the Alt soldiers asks, stopping a few feet in front of us.

  Neither Sam nor I replies. The silence hangs in the air for too long, growing like a balloon between us.

  “No,” I say, spitting the word out. “Nope, no sign, no sign at all.”

  I sway on my feet, and—in the new silence—offer an enthusiastic thumbs-up to the soldiers.

  “Who are you?” the shorter, female Alt asks, leaning close to get a look at my Regular face.

  I try to duck my head, try to hide my big ears and the scars that adorn my face and neck. These are Alts—they are born perfect through pre-birth cosmetic enhancements, and they’ll see through my uniquely normal face in a second.

  “She asked you a question,” the second Alt soldier says, stepping close and prodding a finger into my chest.

  “Who am I?” I say, trying to make my brain work. “I’m … I’m …”

  “He’s your commanding officer, son, show some goddamned respect!” Sam says, stepping forward and swiping the tall Alt soldier’s hand away from my chest.

  “But he’s … and you’re preg—”

  “You see those markings on his uniform?” Sam says, interrupting the stammering soldier and pointing to the stripes on the shoulder of my body armor. “That makes him a Tier Two captain, and if I’m not mistaken, you are a Tier Three lance corporal.”

  The soldier stammers, trying to get words out. “But … but … he’s a Regular.”

  “Wrong again, Lance Corporal!” Sam yells. “This is Captain Yossarian. I imagine you’ve heard of him—he’s become quite famous following the Battle of Midway Park, where he single-handedly killed fourteen, that’s fourteen, Missing soldiers, after saving Galen Rye himself from the explosion that surely would have ended his life. The disrespect you have shown is staggering, sunshine, staggering. To call the famous Captain Yossarian a Regular because of the injuries he sustained in protecting our leader … I’m speechless! What’s your name?”

  The Alt soldier looks down at the road, shamefaced. “Lance Corporal Bisset, ma’am,” he mutters.

  “And you?” Sam asks, turning her attention to the female soldier, who has fallen silent.

  “Lance Corporal Selassi, ma’am.”

  “And who is your commanding officer?”

  “Lieutenant Johnstone,” she replies.

  “Lieutenant Johnstone,” Sam repeats. “Yes, I know Lieutenant Johnstone. I think he’d be very interested to hear about the insolence displayed by two of his platoon.”

  Bisset turns to me and snaps off a smart salute. “Captain Yossarian, sir,” he barks, “I apologize for my insubordination and lack of knowledge. I will accept any and all punishment that you see fit, sir!”

  I try to mimic the salute
and almost poke myself in the eye.

  “Um, Captain Yossarian is still recovering from the injuries he sustained in Midway and we have to be going,” Sam says, shoving me forward. “We’ll let you off on this occasion, but in the future, try to be more aware of who you are speaking to, okay? Goodbye.”

  Sam pushes me along the street, past the soldiers and toward the train station.

  “Yossarian?” I say under my breath, remembering the main character from one of my favorite books.

  “I panicked!” Sam says, stifling a laugh. “I just read Catch-22.”

  “How good is Catch-22?” I extol, far too enthusiastically.

  “Not now, drunky. We have to get out of here.”

  We move quickly, the sounds of more soldiers, gravity engines, and drones seemingly coming from all directions now.

  We take a left and are met by the sound of an Alt soldier yelling orders somewhere nearby. We run, sprinting down alleyways and streets, moving left, then right, then right again.

  We’re close to the platform now, and from here I can see the lights of an empty waiting train.

  I hear rapid beeping sounds that mean the City Train’s doors are about to shut, and we race for the platform. Sam makes it on to the train just as the doors begin to slide toward each other. I’m right behind her, but in my desperation, my feet get tangled up in each other and I fall. I hit the ground but use my forward momentum to roll over my shoulder between the closing doors and make it through.

  I lie sprawled on the train floor, breathing heavily and looking up at the flickering lights, and in this brief moment of calm, staring up at a light that doesn’t quite work, two emotions run through me almost simultaneously: unbridled joy at being free from the Block, and unparalleled rage at Happy for hunting us down like rats.

  “We can’t let Happy win,” I say, climbing to my feet.

  “I know,” Sam replies as she moves through the carriage, checking for cameras and soldiers.

  “No, I mean it. If we have to die to stop the machines, then we have to die.”

  Sam turns to me. “Luka, I know.”

  * * *

  We ride the train for four stops, returning the salutes of two soldiers who board just as we get off.

  We move quickly through Old Town, past the crumbling remains of the parliament buildings and onto the road by the river where less than two months ago I almost froze to death.

  Sam stops at a storm drain, lies on her back, and slides into the gap. She has to adjust and tilt to get her pregnant stomach through. I follow, lying on my front, holding on to the edge of the drain and lowering myself into the sewer.

  I thought the darkness of the city was bad, but we’re immediately plunged into such thick blackness that my eyes need time to adjust. There is no time; Sam has grabbed my wrist and we’re moving through the ankle-deep wastewater.

  “This way,” Sam breathes as we twist and turn through the channels beneath the city.

  When we make it to the drain behind the courthouse, Sam climbs up and lifts the manhole cover up a few inches and looks out. “Wait here,” she whispers, before slipping out to the road.

  I wait in the quiet and the dark for what feels like an age before she returns.

  “Where did you go?” I ask.

  “Pod hooked up a switch that sets off a bunch of separate lights across the city—that way whoever’s on lookout knows when we’re returning.”

  “Smart,” I say, and then I’m rushing to keep up with Sam as she moves through the tunnels toward the library.

  We’re only twenty or thirty yards along when we hear footsteps approaching from the opposite direction. The first thing I see is the glow of Apple-Moth’s lights, and then figures appear. By now my eyes have adjusted, and I recognize Igby, Pander, and Akimi.

  “Friends! Friends! You’re back!” Apple-Moth cries as the drone zips around and around our heads.

  “Thank the Final Gods,” Pander says, and hugs Sam with such ferocity that she knocks the air out of her.

  I smile at this. It’s nice to see some of Pander’s icy veneer beginning to melt.

  Akimi walks up to me, puts a hand on my shoulder, and breathes a sigh of relief. “I thought … I thought you weren’t coming back.”

  “Who, me?” I say, trying to smile, despite the adrenaline and relief that’s still coursing through me. “I always come back.”

  Akimi laughs without much humor and hugs me.

  “Did you get it?” Igby asks, and then shakes his head. “I mean, hey, thank the Gods and all that, but did you get the fucking processor?”

  “We’re not sure,” Sam replies. “Let’s get back to the library and we’ll show you what we’ve got.”

  “Hey, how’s Kina?” I ask Igby.

  “She was awake for a bit, and asking for you, but she was really groggy and went back to sleep. God knows how much sedative Dr. O gave her.”

  “She was awake?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but not making much sense.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. We reach the library, and Akimi, Pander, and Sam head through to the main room. I linger behind in the bathroom-cum–field hospital and watch the door as it swings slowly shut on its spring-loaded hinge. I walk to Kina’s bedside.

  “It’s real, Kina,” I whisper. “It’s all real. We really did make it out of the Block.” For some reason I can feel tears stinging my eyes, and for the first time I realize how scared I’ve been. “God, it seems like it’s so much worse now. Going out there, fighting against them, risking my life, it’s all so much worse now that I have something to lose, someone to leave behind. Kina, I like you, I really like you. We have to end this, we have to beat the machines, and we have to survive.”

  Kina stirs, her eyes open, and she recognizes me.

  “Luka,” she says, and smiles.

  “Hey,” I reply.

  “You’re not going to ask me where the Loop inmates are hiding, are you?” Her voice is hoarse, and—although it’s a joke—I catch fear in her eyes.

  “No,” I reply, “we’re safe; we’re out of the Block.”

  “What the hell did that person inject me with?” she asks as she tries to sit up, but the effort is too much for her.

  “Listen, that doctor is … she’s eccentric, and she may have been a bit overzealous with the sedative.”

  Kina nods. “We were ready to die, weren’t we?” she says, lying back down and closing her eyes.

  “Yes,” I reply, recalling the moment she had held the gun to my head and pulled the trigger.

  “If they ever come for us again, Luka, if they ever try to take us again, promise me you will kill me.”

  I take a deep breath to try to get on top of the tears that threaten to come. “I won’t let it happen,” I say.

  Kina smiles, and I can see that she is drifting back toward sleep. “I know you’ll try,” she says, “and I’ll try not to let it happen either … but if it does?”

  “If it does,” I say, “then yes, I’ll kill you.”

  She nods, and she is very close to sleep now. “Luka, promise me you won’t leave me again.”

  “Just rest for now,” I tell her.

  “Promise me, Luka.”

  “I promise,” I say, and it’s an easy promise to make. I don’t ever want to leave her.

  I lean forward and kiss her on the side of her mouth, and she falls asleep.

  I brush her hair away from her eyes and then wipe the tears from mine before joining the others in the main room.

  “… perfect, fucking perfect!” Igby is declaring, holding aloft a tiny microchip from the handful that Sam has given him. He dashes toward the computer and the artificial eye.

  Pander walks past and pats me on the shoulder. This is about as affectionate as she gets, and it makes me smile.

  I feel a sense of love for these people, all of them my friends, old and new.

  I glance up to the crow’s nest and see Dr. Ortega on lookout duty, spinning around in a slow circle, thum
b and forefinger pinching the bridge of her nose in a posture of boredom. Or perhaps she has a headache. Igby said he didn’t trust her, and there is still part of me trying to work some connection between her and something I’ve seen or heard.

  I give up thinking about the doctor and collapse, exhausted and still a little drunk, into a chair. I close my eyes.

  * * *

  “Psst.”

  My eyes open slowly and I realize I’ve been sleeping.

  “Psst!” the voice comes again, and I try to focus, but all I see is an orange glow.

  “What?” I ask groggily.

  “Friend, what do you call a dog that does magic tricks?”

  I lean back and blink. Apple-Moth comes into focus, hovering too close to my face.

  “What?” I repeat.

  “I said: What do you call a dog that does magic tricks?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply, confused.

  “A labracadabrador!” Apple-Moth says, and then does backflips in the air as it laughs at its own joke.

  I look around, still half asleep, and then Apple-Moth hovers expectantly in front of my eyes.

  “Good one,” I say, and Apple-Moth glows pink and does three more backflips before zipping off to the second level to find someone else to tell jokes to.

  “What the hell?” I mutter, and then I see Pod walking toward me.

  “What happened out there?” he asks. “What’s with the uniform; you joined the Alts? You Captain Kane now?” He smiles.

  “That’s Yossarian to you,” Sam says from across the room, and smiles knowingly at me. We both laugh.

  I explain everything to Pod, the others gathering around as I tell the story. Sam takes over at times, and by the time we’re finished everyone except Igby is listening intently.

  Pander whistles a long descending note. “You two should be dead. I mean, I’m glad you’re not, but damn!”

  “Yeah, you guys work well together,” Akimi says. “I mean, not to brag, but I did get a week’s supply of food on my own, but, shit, you two should have been erased three times over.”

  “Holy shit, it worked!” Igby’s voice calls out, echoing through the library. “It worked, it worked!”