“If she’s anywhere outside, she’ll be on the map,” Dr. Maceo said. “That is, if she was outside approximately twenty-seven minutes ago, she’ll be on the map. Heh-heh.”
“This won’t be easy,” Dr. Sarita said, sticking her head directly into a cluster of buildings to get a better look.
“I’ll ask Djinna and Splink to help,” Dr. Maceo said.
Max found himself so transfixed by the holomap he barely noticed Djinna and Splink and the heavy cloud that had fallen over everything after Krestlefax’s grim prediction. The little figures blipped along in jerky, rhythmic bursts as the feed caught up to itself. If he squinted and got real close, Max could even make out facial expressions and tiny gestures that were individual to each person. He found Old Man Cortinas outside the barbershop, chatting as always with Mateo and Tecla. There was Del, the jetboot mechanic, helping a little girl into her first pair. Hunterflies slid back and forth through the sky, just blurry blips over the holomap. The line outside the bakery wound all the way to the middle of Flood City Plaza, and Max imagined he could see the hungry patrons chatting with one another, gossiping about their day, planning festivities for the night ahead. Some looked skyward, wondering no doubt about when the next attack would come. Max smiled, forgetting for a second that his sister was lost somewhere in there.
“There she is!” yelled Djinna. “I think that’s her.” Dr. Sarita made it to her first, followed by Max.
“Where?” Dr. Sarita demanded.
“Right there,” Djinna said. “On the tip of the ocean liner.”
“What’s that thing next to her?” Max asked.
Dr. Sarita looked very pale suddenly. “Oh my …”
“What, Mom?” Max said. “What is it?”
“Let’s go. Now.”
They said brisk goodbyes to the Maceos and Splink and then launched off into the midafternoon sky. Max had never seen his mom move so quickly across Flood City. He asked her what was wrong, but she just grunted and zipped faster.
“How do you know she’ll be home?”
“I don’t. Hurry up.”
They zipped around a corner, Max taking it a little wide and almost crashing into a hovering streetlight, and careened up along the sheer cliff face and into the tunnel.
“Mom! What’s going on?”
But then they were home, speeding up the twenty flights to their cramped three-bedroom apartment, and there was Yala, sitting calmly at the kitchen table next to what looked like a puff of smoke with eyes and a mouth.
“Biaque,” Dr. Sarita said to the smoke once she’d landed and powered down her jetboots.
Max raised his eyebrows. He was only barely adjusting to the fact that his sister was sitting at the kitchen table with a vapor and now it turned out his mom was on a first-name basis with said vapor? Too much.
The vapor nodded. “Dr. Sarita.” There was a pause—a very thick pause during which four sets of eyes looked curiously back and forth at one another and then Dr. Sarita simply walked across the room and wrapped her arms around Biaque, burying her head in his cushiony cloud.
Max’s mouth fell open.
“It is you,” Dr. Sarita whispered.
Biaque nodded. “Of course! Did you expect someone else?”
“I didn’t know! It’s been so long! Years …” She took a step back, understanding dawning across her face. “Oh,” Dr. Sarita said, and looked at Yala. “It’s time?”
“I have something to tell you both,” Yala said. It was as serious as Max had ever seen her look, and Yala was a pretty straight-faced girl. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning—”
Dr. Sarita nodded her head, her forehead creased. “Biaque told me this would probably happen, a long, long time ago.”
“Told you what would probably happen?” Max asked. “Where you going?”
“—at the break of day.”
The break of day. That’s when Splink …
“No!” Max gasped. “What? Why?”
Yala scrunched up her face and sniffled. “It’s hard to explain, Max. It’s just something I have to do.”
“But the …” Max tried not to imagine life without Yala around. “And the … How could you?”
“I’m sorry, Max. You know I’ll miss you. And I’ll write every day.”
Max had no more words. It was all too much. He took a deep breath and looked out the window at the afternoon sky over Flood City. “Okay,” he said finally. “I have a concert to get ready for.” He walked out of the room.
Ato headed toward the bridge, his mind reeling. Mephim had always been a little creepy, it was true, but this … this was something different altogether. How many people must be down there? Several thousand at least. And sure, they were rebels and in league with Star Guard, armed to the teeth and vicious according to the intelligence reports, but to obliterate the entire city? Only a madman would do such a thing.
He rounded a corner and stopped. He felt dizzy, like all the different things that had just happened were weighing down his head, clogging his thought channels. Who would rip off an iguanagull’s head with his bare hands and hide it away? Had Mephim always been evil or did something happen?
At the other end of the hall, the flight deck was alive with blips and commands. The crew was checking the system over to make sure everything was ready for their scouting mission tonight. Ato started walking again, very slowly. He didn’t like what was going on one bit. A klaxon burst out over the quiet drone of the engines, and the corridor turned bright red with alarm lights.
“Battle stations,” ArchBaron Mephim’s staticky voice growled over the intercom. “Prepare for the intelligence run on Flood City.”
Old Man Cortinas stepped into the empty auditorium and let out a long sigh. Besides the music itself, this was one of his most treasured moments of any concert. The place was so quiet, but he could feel the anticipation hanging in the air, like the walls themselves were anxiously awaiting all of Flood City to bustle in. He shuffled down the center aisle, enjoying the echoing clanks of his jetboots against the linoleum floor. The musicians’ chairs were set up in a half-moon around the Hole, just like they were supposed to be. Cortinas walked right to the edge and peered into that endless emptiness. No one was allowed this close to the Hole except on Flood City Day, when the orchestra played a special commemorative concert to celebrate their survival and honor all the drowned ancestors whose bodies lay somewhere beneath the sea.
The old man nodded at the depths, sighed, and then laid down the suitcase he’d brought with him and popped open the clasps. To all outward appearances, the case was just a regular instrument carrier. Cortinas was, after all, an old man, and what else would an old man be carrying around but music paper and his horn? Inside, of course, it was a whole different story: The slicer X3900 with laser-vision sighting and a magnum push attachment sat cozily in its foam bedding. Just beside it, in a separate hollow space, was the detachable rocket launcher.
Cortinas smiled. “Hello, baby girl.”
He lifted the weapon out of its case with all the tenderness of a loving father and ran a cloth over its sleek body. Then he sat down, cradling the slicer in his lap, and picked up the shorter, thicker attachment. With a satisfying click-clack the two pieces became one, and Cortinas grinned even wider. He perched the thing on his shoulder and pointed it at the ceiling. There had been reports earlier about red flashes in the clouds above Flood City. Laser fire. “Maybe this year,” he whispered. “C’mon, Barons. We’re waiting for you.”
Max normally had a rumbly tummy before his performances. Even speaking up in class gave him the shivers. But tonight he felt nothing. In the morning, his sister would be gone, whisked off to join the Star Guard. She’d be subjected to untold horrors, probably never to be seen again. What else could possibly matter more? He entered the grandiose and dilapidated auditorium building from the back, making his way straight for the dressing rooms.
How could she? And why? The useless questions kept charging through Max’s head lik
e a flock of squawking iguanagulls. He knew there was no answer he could understand, didn’t even think she fully knew why she was doing it, but still—the questions remained. He undressed quickly, glad to have arrived a few minutes early and have the room all to himself, and pulled on his fancy trousers.
Max looked in the full-length mirror and a wave of guilt cascaded over him. What right did he have to demand his sister do anything? So what if she wanted to run off and join the Star Guard? Let her. It’d be a fine opportunity for him to take care of himself for once, and not have her meddling with him all the time. Fine. So be it. Then he sighed and pulled on the button-up shirt with a growl.
Whatever. Yala would do what she wanted. Hopefully it wouldn’t get her killed. He nudged his pre-tied tie over his head and adjusted it. Hopefully it wouldn’t get him killed either. Then he remembered the ancient bird’s one-word prophecy: WAR! Now fully dressed, Max frowned at himself.
“Yo, Max,” Deezer said, walking into the dressing room. “What it do?”
“Ugh,” Max said.
“That good?”
Deezer and Max had known each other since they were tiny. He played the second feezlehorn in the orchestra. They weren’t exactly best friends, but they shared an easy familiarity.
“Yala’s joining the Star Guard tomorrow,” Max muttered.
“Oh,” Deezer said, suddenly solemn.
Max smacked his forehead. “C’mon, man! You’re supposed to cheer me up! It’s not like she’s dead.”
“No. She’ll be fine.” Deezer started to get changed.
“Thanks,” said Max with a roll of his eyes. “Thanks a lot.”
He walked out of the dressing room and down the hall to the main auditorium, where he found Old Man Cortinas asleep on a fold-out chair, cradling his tattered instrument case like a baby.
“Alright, everyone,” Chief Gunner Sak yelled. “Listen up!”
The general hubbub on the bridge died down. Everyone turned to look at Sak.
“We’re turning off the cloaking device in five.”
That wasn’t right, Ato thought. They were supposed to stay under cover! Otherwise …
Lieutenant Oso raised his hand. “Chief Gunner Sak.”
Sak shot him an irritated glance. “Hm?”
“This is an intelligence mission. If we decloak—”
“That is a direct order.”
“I realize that, Sak—”
“Chief Gunner Sak.”
“The order comes from me,” Mephim said, sweeping into the room. “Do you have a problem with the mission and chain of command, Lieutenant Oso?”
Oso clenched his lips. “No, ArchBaron.”
Ato felt like the whole ship was made out of glass suddenly. Was Mephim even going to mention the nuke? Apparently not. And why was everything so tense all of a sudden? It wasn’t uncommon to see some back and forth about tactics, especially between Oso and Sak. But something was different now.
“Um …” Ato said, standing. He’d jumped up without being completely sure of what he was going to say—anything to break the tension between Mephim and Oso. “What is the plan if we get shot down?”
Mephim didn’t stop glaring at Oso. “The plan is don’t get killed. We’re well out of range of backup support. It is a top-secret mission. Most of the Barons don’t even know we’re here or why. That is the risk of this work—if you don’t like it, you shouldn’t have come.”
“No, I don’t mean—”
“So, if we get shot down, Ato”—Mephim was still locking eyes with Oso, but he hissed Ato’s name so fiercely it felt like a threat—“we may well never be heard from again. Not many of you will blend.”
And it was true—from what Ato had read, most of the folks who’d been left behind on Flood City were black and brown. Everyone on the cloud cruiser and most of the people on the Baron base fleet were white like him. The official Baron histories seemed a little touchy about those demographics, most preferring not to mention them at all; the rest glossed over them pretty quickly.
“Anyway,” Mephim said, glowering, “Flood City doesn’t take kindly to Barons showing up near its cultural institutions, especially on the one and only holiday. So we’ll probably take fire if we uncloak, correct?”
Everyone on the crew looked back and forth at one another. Ato felt a lump in the pit of his stomach.
“Correct?” the ArchBaron growled.
“Sir, yes, sir!” yelled most of them. Ato just blinked. What was about to happen?
“Then we better lay down some preemptive fire, hm?”
“Yes, ArchBaron,” Sak said, snapping a salute.
Mephim nodded and sat back down. “Now,” he said, steepling his fingers, “we have continuing cloud cover; let us approach the target. Charge up your cannons, and turn off the cloaking device.”
Max watched the Flood City pageant drift along around him. He sat in the same spot as always, nestled smack in the middle of the horn ensemble, the Hole a gaping chasm at his back. The hunterfly conjunto hovered in perfect formation to his left. Past them were the string players. On his right stood Djinna, just visible past her monster balooga drum. But Max barely registered her. Normally at this point in the performance he’d be shaking with nervousness. His stomach would be growling. He’d be a mess. Then the main orchestra section would come in and he’d catch his rhythm and things would fall into place; his nervousness would give way to the moment.
Tonight though, everything was different. Max still couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d never see his sister again. He tried to tell himself it would all be fine, she had to live her life, but that empty feeling in the pit of his stomach remained.
Around him, the pageant swaggered on as always: Cheerful five- and six-year-olds ran onstage, giggling and clutching a luminous stretch of blue fabric—the Great Flood. Max had been thrilled to graduate out of this agonizing stage of the performance and become a musician’s apprentice. A few older kids, already working hard to project that air of perpetual whateverness, strutted on carrying the same giant papier-mâché starship they used every year. They held it over the giggling waves and the crowd broke into applause right on cue. It was the Gallant.
Then, to much hooting and hollering, a group of kids representing the crew of the Gallant marched onto the stage. They made a big show of seeing the audience—an overused metaphor for discovering Flood City that still teared up some of the elders. It was all pretty corny, but everyone loved it and the whole crowd was on their feet and clapping. Max always used to try to pick out which kid was supposed to be his mom, but it was useless of course—the little actors weren’t doing a one-to-one representation. The only ones you could really tell apart were one kid with a big fake mustache that was obviously meant to be Cortinas, and another wearing a sheet over his head to make him look like the one vapor who’d accompanied the survivors on their journey after the Floods. The thought of any vapors, even one of the Founders, made Max grimace and retreat deeper into his shell.
As if in response to Max’s foul mood, the orchestra swung dramatically into the sinister, minor key procession part that was the cue for the Chemical Barons to attack. A couple of ten-year-olds entered from the left wearing cardboard Baron uniforms. The crowd booed accordingly. Max hit each note with precision but otherwise felt only tired and empty. The Chemical Baron kids made a show of chasing people around and generally being terrible before a bunch of older kids with blue face paint came running in on stilts. The Star Guard. No one cheered. Cortinas, Max imagined, was cringing like he did every year. There was no mention of the Flood City rebels, the group Cortinas had formed to fight off the Barons. Just big blue giants, saving Flood City from total destruction, year after year, always under the watchful eye of Bartrum Uk, who always hovered somewhere in the back shadows of the auditorium.
The Chemical Barons finally retreated into the wings with exaggerated gasping and stomping. Flood City was free. Sort of. The little kids all took big bows and paraded off the stage,
laughing and shoving one another.
Now that the reenactment portion of the show was winding down, it was time for the music to enter full swing—the orchestra’s moment to shine. Here’s where Max’s stomach knotting would reach its agonizing peak, his pulse would get fast and thready, and his breath would come up short. But none of that was happening. All he felt was empty.
The music jangled along as it did every year—an easy kind of strut, each section clacking perfectly into place, all the pieces falling together like an expertly built machine, but Max was distracted. Or maybe bored. Both. Either way, he just wasn’t feeling it. He managed to stay in line, let out each note just in time, but his mind filled with images of Yala getting blown up or lost in an asteroid belt or sucked into a black hole. And then there would be funeral arrangements to deal with and their mom would never be the same and everyone would shake their heads sadly as the casket passed.
Something nagged at Max’s subconscious and he looked up. People were staring at the rhythm section. Something was wrong. Or different. It was Djinna. Max couldn’t put his finger on it, but something she was doing with that balooga was off. Well, it was off in the sense that it had never been done before. Only just slightly—each note was playfully waiting till you didn’t think it’d come and then jumping in, somehow right on time. It made Max want to move his hips and shuffle his feet. He looked out across the audience. Some folks were hemming and hawing uneasily, but most had started bobbing their heads in time with the music.
Djinna was doing something brand-new. She looked terribly sad and determined at the same time, but there was some kind of joyful glow coming off her too. At least, Max thought so—like the simple awesomeness of shuffling that rhythm up was spreading over her in a cloud. He thought maybe they were meant to be together and then he remembered stinking Splink and how she was probably playing with him in mind. And that reminded him of the Star Guard Academy and Yala about to be gone and the gloom came over him again.
Flood City Page 6
