Rise of the Red Hand

by Olivia Chadha

  “Okay, quickly though, chalo,” I say, glancing over my shoulder.

  “Beti, sit, please.” The old man holds onto his hip, supporting himself like a tree bending in an invisible wind. He signals to the smallest stall I’ve ever seen: two pillows, a small table, a bowl and a curtain that conceals the stall.

  I hesitate. Sitting isn’t on my list today. But during our brief exchange, I realized how tired I am. I’ve been going without sleep or rest for at least a day. I press my hands together and sit on the small, tattered pillow. Though I am exposed, my body gives into gravity.

  “What now, Uncle?” I ask as he feeds a fire in a metal bowl with a few small, oiled twigs. They catch and a rich gray smoke works into the air of his stall, acidic and sweet.

  He draws the curtain closed, dimming the stall, and sits beside me. His spectacles turn his eyes into ancient satellite dishes.

  “So . . . ?” A 3D mini screen casts the solar system around us. Certain constellations are brighter than others. The stars. I know they are out there somewhere, past the smog and haze, and glare. I’ve never seen the whole night sky before. But this isn’t the time for luxuries.

  “Patience.”

  Enough of these dreams. I rise. “Patience? You do know that the Narrows were cleared for the Fever, right? That most are probably heading to containment? To die, or worse?” I shake my head. “My little sister . . .” I can’t even finish the sentence.

  “Hush, beti. I am aware.” His small hand touches my replacement arm without hesitation. “Trust me, you want to see this.”

  He lifts a shawl and exposes a control panel. A few clicks and it lights up.

  “How do you have connection here?”

  “Not everyone uses the same network. They look only to the future, but it’s the devices of the past that are most secure and untraceable. This is from a long, long time ago. So long ago that Central forgot.”

  “Interesting,” I take in the strange, thick pieces of metal. “What are these? Keys? What’s that?” I touch the surface of the clunky metal bits and he swats my hand.

  “Eh, yes. Well, The Mechanic warned me that your veins buzz with electricity, Tiger.”

  “How do you know . . .”

  “Ashiva, you’re here to find the elders of the Lal Hath?”

  “How do you—”

  “Hang on to something.”

  With that, the old man turns a crank in the floor, and we begin to move lower and lower, down below the market. His thin arms tremble as he shuts a hatch above us and we continue into total darkness.

  “An old elevator shaft? Where are you taking me?”

  “Down, obviously. Be patient,” his voice says in the dark.

  17 //

  Riz-Ali

  It was still light out; I remember because of the auburn haze that cut through the view across Central from our flat. It surrounded the city like an apocalyptic sunset, otherworldly, and reminded me of the surface of Mars. When I was younger, I wondered if Earth was becoming like Mars. At twelve, I was still fascinated by astronomy. The new game Kanwar Uncle brought me was slow going, beyond my ability. Worst of all, Endless Planet was a single-player game that took forever and I had to solve equations in order to acquire tools. But I played it anyway, in the living room, set up my character, and launched an initial campaign into the galaxy to discover new inhabitable planets. He and Father were in the study at the end of their workday, talking, while Mother worked late. I remember everything like it was a film, and I have relived it over and over again, a million times, with forensic accuracy, in case I missed something. I’ve scoured the memory, like a permanent blood stain. Their voices were low, but I could hear everything, even through my headphones, because I turned the volume way down.

  “Kanwar, you’re being ridiculous.” My father’s dismissive tone was my least favorite.

  “Anik, I know what I saw. Don’t ask me to forget it.” Uncle’s sigh was volatile.

  “It’s easy. I do it all day long. You can pretend to forget. It was an accident. You weren’t meant to see the results, the plans. Move on. Deny. Deny. Deny.” Father slapped his hands together.

  Lie? I remember that clearest of all. To my father, the truth was the only god.

  Ice in glasses clinked. “Deny? You’ve known, haven’t you. All this time. You’ve lied to me. You’ve lied to everyone. How can you wake up every day and do what you do? It’s unimaginable.”

  “I do it for today, for Riza. Just because the data is abysmal doesn’t mean that one of the Provinces will not find a solution. It’s still possible. Have faith, brother.”

  Endless Planet celebrated with cheers and an explosion of glitter on the screen as my character leapt across Mars’ moon, Phobos. Then their voices quieted.

  “I need to make the drop, Anik. I already made the contact,” Uncle’s voice was tired.

  “You’re like a brother to me. You’ve put us all at risk. Promise me, Kanu. Promise me.” I’d never heard my father so desperate. But what he was asking Kanwar Uncle to promise, I don’t know. “They will not look upon this favorably. It’s a serious offence. You have to stop sending them info.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Kanwar Uncle was changed, though.

  At the time, I had no idea what they were talking about. The Red Hand wasn’t a topic we discussed. But now, reflecting back, this feels like everything. Now, it’s starting to make sense. My uncle must have known something; he was agitated about it. He needed help. They talked about work over whiskey nearly every time they could. But I’d never heard this worried tone in my father’s voice. It was starting to make sense now, after finding the note in Uncle’s plans. Was my father was pleading with Uncle to stop sending the Red Hand intel? Stop connecting with them, maybe? Or maybe someone else? Father asked Uncle to promise him to do something, but what?

  My father was called back to the laboratory for an emergency situation that night, something about the reactor, but Kanwar Uncle stayed. He turned off the kitchen bots and all the house helper bots, and we cooked dinner together.

  “People are better company than machines, don’t you think, Riza?” he said with a smile.

  I nodded. He made me feel so special.

  “What would you like for dinner, puttar? Let me guess . . . onion omelet?”

  I laughed. It was the only thing he could make. “Yes, please!” I put on music for our cooking time. I cracked the eggs, he sliced the onions. The house smelled of home. We ate together quietly.

  “Slow down. You’re going to choke!” he said, but I wanted to get to the good stuff.

  We washed the dishes and put them away; a job the bots would have easily done, but he wanted me to remember how to do it.

  “Come on, I’ve brought you something very interesting today,” he said, sitting on the couch, holding a small box.

  “What is it?” Presents from him were special, not like the things Mother and Father gave me, which were basically what their assistants bought for me. Uncle knew me.

  “First, you must swear a promise to me. That you’ll never show this to anyone, okay? It’s our secret. Promise?” He showed me his pinky finger. It was the ultimate unbreakable promise.

  “Yes!” I said, and spun my little finger around his and squeezed. “What is it?”

  “Open it.” He handed me a thin box. I lifted the lid and inside were small rolls of blue synth paper with code. At least twenty, each the thickness of a pen. I took one and unrolled it. The next one was the same. It was too advanced for me. Some had images of robotic plans, some had diagrams, others were just more unreadable code.

  “Keep it safe for me. Okay? Can you do that?”

  I nodded. “But what are they?”

  “When you’re old enough, you’ll be able to read them yourself.” He tousled my hair. “The secret is in the agribots, puttar.”

  “Is that all?” I was not impressed. Now, thinking back, there’s a pain in my chest because I know he was saying goodbye. That he wanted
me to have something of his to remember him by. He must have known he was going to die.

  He feigned shock. “I thought you’d be so happy with a box.” He laughed such a hearty laugh, his whole body shook. “You see right through me. Here is my real present.” He handed me a small blue robot the size of a cricket ball. It had arms and legs, and big black eyes that blinked at me.

  “Wow! What is it?” The mini-bot chirped and stretched out its arms as though it wanted to be hugged.

  “He’s a playmate. I’ve programmed him to play chess, to read books, to sing. But he’s not very good at singing. Anyway, you can program him to do whatever you want.” Uncle twisted his moustache with his fingertips.

  “But I have you to play chess with.”

  “Of course you do. Let’s play?” We played two games. He won both, but taught me why, and I went to sleep. It was like most other nights.

  I remember Uncle was sitting on the edge of my bed, the shadows falling across his face like a shroud, and my eyes heavy with sleep.

  That was the last time I saw him.

  His funeral was three days later.

  After—when we moved—my mother made me leave his robot in the old house because it was childish.

  I need to get the plans from my apartment. Now, I’m stuck in the sewers with a pagal, crazy dude, far, far away from Central. I stumble in the tunnel as we walk and laugh at myself. If only Uncle could see me now. He’d be so proud that I’d left the comfort of my home. That I’m challenging the world around me. Jai lifts my hood and the world around me overwhelms me.

  “Why are you so cheerful, yaar? We’re selling you to a syndicate that just might flay you and leave you out for all of Central to see,” Jai says.

  “Uh huh,” I say.

  “It would be on every comms across the Province. Did I mention the likely pain and agony you’d endure? Did you hear what I said?”

  “Sure, Jai,” I say. “Flayed. Central. Comms. I get it.” I count seventeen steps to the next tunnel entrance.

  He puts his arm out to stop me from walking. “You’re an odd one. Most usually take a piss or beg the whole way.”

  My hands shake as I try to push my long hair into a bun. I can’t control them. “But I’m no use to anyone dead, even them. Trust me.”

  “Hang on, what’s going on with your mitts? They look a little jumbly.”

  Jai’s a strange boy, to say the least. He’s free, can do anything he wants, say anything he wants, and it doesn’t matter. No one watching him, monitoring him, telling him what to do. Well, except for Khan Zadabhai. He has only one master. I have many.

  A sickness steals across my body. I never let it get this far before using the auto-injector, and crashing from THink is making it worse. The gen-cybernetic doctors say my body is rejecting the neural-synch because I’m not compliant, not because I’m lacking intelligence. But my mother makes it clear that non-conformity is a fracture in her façade of perfection. That I am inconveniencing her. They agreed to give me the injector medication for one year to see if it took. If not, they say, well, there’s an experimental treatment. I don’t have a say. She decides for me.

  “What’s wrong, mate?” Jai asks, though he doesn’t sound worried, more amused.

  “I’m okay. Let’s go.”

  “No, I’m serious, yaar. You’re turning yellow. Nope, wait a second, green.”

  And he’s right. I throw up and feel better, like I can breathe again.

  “Okay, that was disgusting.”

  I put up my hand. “Keep going. I’m fine. Just no more hood, okay?”

  “For now, but I’ll have to put it on before we arrive.”

  We meet a small boy on the corner of two tunnels, and he slips something thin and flat that looks like a data-chip into Jai’s hand. The kid takes off, and I see Jai slide the chip into a reader in his wrist. Jai is full of surprises.

  “Who does the ghost tech surgery down here? That wrist reader is brilliant work. I don’t see a scar at all,” I say.

  He ignores me, but doesn’t hit me, so that’s progress.

  “Oh, I get it. The kid gave you directions or something. Am I right?”

  Still silence. Hours pass trudging through the filthy tunnels. I count the entryways, broken signs, piles of refuse until I forget what I’m counting. Finally, we reach a shaft that goes down even further. I wonder if Central had maps of these tunnels or if Central even knew they exist. I wonder if we are below sea level because of the humidity. My legs are tired and my face is numb. The sickness is going to take me. It’s just a matter of time. I want to go home now. I want the comfort of my bed, and the annoying nanny-bot Taz to make me some dinner. My life is worlds away from the living nightmare in which I’m trapped.

  I count ten tunnels, and stop counting the garbage after one hundred and six pieces.

  18 //

  Ashiva

  As I follow the old man through the elevator, I consider my mission: get to the elders, find a way to free Masiji and the others. Sounds simple in my head, but the more I think about it, the more I realize this is the worst type of plan for three reasons.

  1: The C.O.R.E mechas completely change the game. Humans against humans is one thing, but the scales tip in their favor with the mecha-suits. Some of us are part-machine, but none of us have an exoskeleton or the funding of the South Asian Province.

  2: To find my family, I need to hack Solace, and if I hack Solace, I’ll be traced as unauthorized and the SA will find me.

  3: I don’t trust the originators of the Red Hand. They left the Red Hand since the reorganization, and turned their backs on us.

  There, I said it.

  Masiji puts all her faith in them, like a religious cult, but I’ve never met them in person. They’re phantoms that slip into conversations about the past, when she talks about life before the launch of the neural-synch. She always gets this look in her eyes when she mentions them, like they’re saints, the original team that brought the Red Hand to life. I know they had a falling-out, but I never learned the specifics. But saints are dreams not worth believing in. And if someone thinks they are a saint, they are a liar or worse.

  The old man leads me into a dark corridor, and I curse myself for trusting him. He could very well take me to Central authorities. Desperate people are capable of anything. Hunger motivates like no other. But still I follow. He says he knows Masiji. I have no other leads anyway. I can easily overpower him with my replacement, and I think he knows that. I hope he knows that.

  “Just a little further, beti,” the old man says.

  If he calls me daughter, he wouldn’t be setting me up for slaughter. Right?

  “You know, it’ll be very disappointing if I had to hurt an elder,” I say.

  He stops. With one swift motion, he turns to face me and presses his rough hand to my cheek. His dark eyes have shadows within shadows.

  “You have every reason to hate this world, and yet you don’t. Your life has been one constant challenge, a test of strength, mental and physical. I don’t blame you for not trusting me. In fact, I’d think you were not the young woman described to me if you did.” His chuckle is a swift breath in, followed by a coughing fit.

  “You aren’t selling me out for a few ration pods?” I ask as I follow him into darker and darker rooms.

  “For a few thousand, maybe I’d consider it.” He smiles. “No, why would that benefit me? I live in the same world as you, breathe the same toxic air, drink the same filthy water. There’s no way we can prevail if we do not work together.” He tosses his shawl over his shoulder. “But please, don’t take my word for it.” He swipes his hand in a grand gesture from left to right and my heart skips. “We are here.”

  “What is this place?” I take in the expansive, round room.

  “This is where it all began.”

  The circular room is covered in dust. There are control panels on the far end, and the edges are sectioned off like it was an office of some kind a long time ago. Posters of
the Rani are plastered on the metal walls, ads from a different time, a different battle entirely than the one that faces me.

  “Is that original?” I touch the image of her face in black and white and red stencil. A red bloody handprint in the center on her chest. She is beautiful, stark, just a girl who got caught up in a much larger conflict.

  “You know it?”

  “Who doesn’t? She inspired a revolution. Murdered by the guardians in their first defense of the new Central Ring. She was a schoolgirl murdered by Uplanders. Masiji told me the story many times. They named her the Rani. Queen. Her death during the Crimson Riots got Central to open the gates again, if only temporarily.”

  “Yes, I’m glad to see you have the story straight,” he says. “I made it, you see.”

  “You made the Rani poster? But you’re so . . .”

  “Old, useless . . . I wasn’t always so.” His smile is almost silly. “I made more than the poster.”

  “What do you mean?” I scan the room and realize what a strange place this is: odds and ends of a control system, bits and pieces of ancient computer parts, monitors, all made from the same heavy metal and plastic. It’s a flitting museum.

  “Ghaazi made me,” a woman’s voice calls like fresh, cold water in the hot, dank room.

  “Who said that?” But I see her before I need an answer. She’s thin, tall and elegant. Her gray and white hair is pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. And she wears body armor; I notice it’s woven directly into her black and gray kurta and pajama. Clever. Her whole appearance says, “Don’t cross me” and “Give me a hug” at the same time. Deadly combo.

  “Hello, Ashiva. I’m so glad to finally meet you.” She hugs me. I stiffen like a piece of wire caught in a clamp.

  “Er, who are you?”

  “I’m the Rani.” She gently presses both her hands against my cheeks as though she wants to get inside my mind. “But my given name is Surinder. Call me Suri. Everyone does.”