Rebellion

by K A Riley

  “Bamboo,” Ethan tells us. “The cups. Totally biodegradable.”

  Orion fiddles with the head of a silver stud protruding from her eyebrow. “So you grew up without tech?”

  “We had viz-screens,” I tell her. “And my dad had some pretty sophisticated equipment in his lab.”

  “Was he an Operator?”

  “A what?”

  Sabine elbows Orion. “You know. A techno-smith. Someone who does code and fixes things.”

  “Oh. I guess so. He was a scientist. And an engineer.” I flip my hands over to expose the inside of my forearms. “He wrote the code for these. My tattoos.”

  Sabine says, “Dishy” and runs her finger along the black chevrons, swoops, and dots. “Do they revamp?”

  “Revamp?”

  “Like this,” Orion says, slipping a thimble-like cap of metal onto the tip of her finger. She runs the cap along the dragon tattoo on her neck, and it morphs magically into a tiger. She swipes it again, and the tiger re-forms into a pink and white-petaled Japanese cherry tree.

  “She only calls them ‘tattoos,’” Brohn explains. “They’re actually part of a neuro-tech integrated network that connects her to Render.”

  “The prophet,” Jerald says, gazing up into the sky and then back at me. “And the savior.” He looks solemn and serious, but then Ethan, Sabine, and Orion burst into laughter and tell him to stop being so dramatic.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Ethan says. “He’s caught up in the whole idea of the five of you being the ones who are going to save us before things get out of hand around here.”

  Brohn glances around at the other patrons in the café and leans in over our table, suddenly just as serious as Jerald. “And do the people here know what they’re in for after Krug gets his hooks into the city? Do they know how bad things are about to get?”

  Speaking in a low voice and with her eyes alert to any attention being paid to us by other customers, Sabine tells us that the Patriot Army doesn’t have total control over San Francisco yet, although they’re working hard in that direction. Local law enforcement tolerates them as a hybrid vigilante-government militia. But there is tension there. “We just don’t know which way the pendulum will swing.”

  I’m amazed at how normal this all is. Four teenagers talking, having coffee, and occasionally laughing together and discussing politics. There’s a dream-come-true quality to the moment with me and Brohn sitting with four new friends on a sunny day in a colorful city.

  With a confidence I very nearly feel, I make a promise to Sabine and to the others: “It’ll swing the right way.”

  13

  Reminding me that we have a mission to complete, Brohn tells the others we have to get going. There are handshakes and hugs all around. We thank our four new friends for telling us more about them and their city, and, under their breath, they each thank us for “saving them and their city.”

  “We haven’t done anything yet,” Brohn corrects them.

  “You’ve inspired a lot of people and opened a lot of eyes and minds,” Orion says, leaning in to whisper into our group huddle.

  Saying another round of goodbyes, Brohn and I leave the café, and I feel the ridiculous sting of tears in my eyes like I’m going to start crying, which makes me feel like an idiot, which makes me feel like I’m going to start crying even more. Brohn turns to stare at me, stunned, like I’m on fire. Fortunately, that makes me chuckle, and pretty soon, we’re both walking along, holding hands, and laughing in the middle of San Francisco as if we were two normal teenagers out on a date.

  Straying from the specific directions supplied by Render, we explore the northeastern neighborhoods of the city. The holo-ads we walk through are impressive. Instead of being passive displays, they’re designed to interact with us like a real person might. One of them looks like a transparent waiter, and it asks if we’d like to try one of their tasty breakfast specials. Brohn laughs and tells it “No thank you,” but the hologram is persistent and follows us another ten feet before it fizzles away and resets back in front of the diner to annoy the next pedestrians passing by.

  After that amusing little encounter, we stroll through SoMa, cross into the Tenderloin District and the East Cut. We walk hand-in-hand down Geary Street where we pop into an old bookstore and inhale the wonderful scent of paper. We get a few odd looks as we flip open book after book and run our fingers along the colorful rows of dusty paperbacks, but no one says anything or tries to shoot us, so I consider it a successful experience.

  After that, we meander through Nob Hill before cutting across Stockholm Street and into Chinatown until we stumble upon a place called Little Paris with a gaudy holo-display out front advertising a Vietnamese dessert called “chè.”

  “Wisp mentioned this place,” Brohn says. “Said chè is a must-try San Francisco treat.”

  I pull Brohn down to me by his shirt collar and give him a kiss just because.

  He kisses me back, and we get an approving smile from an older couple passing by on the sidewalk.

  Once inside the store, it occurs to us that we don’t have a way to pay for anything, and, even if we did, we don’t know how to work the automated serving system everyone in the place is using. As we’re standing there, chuckling and immersed in our stupidity, a smiling, kind-eyed woman hops down from a bar stool by the window and offers to help us out.

  “Not from around here, are you?” she says.

  I’m too busy staring at the array of colorful vending machines to answer, but Brohn tells her that no, we’re not from San Francisco.

  The woman says, “Interesting” and looks around like she’s making sure we’re not being overheard. “Because the city’s been under barricade orders for over two months. So where did you two come from?”

  When Brohn and I don’t answer, she tugs us by our sleeves toward one of the machines currently dispensing a large cup of what looks like black-bean soup on the bottom with a thick layer of white cream on the top. The concoction is collected by a round man in a three-piece fluorescent pink business suit. When the man takes his cup and moves away, the strange woman leans in toward one of those floating retinal-scanner like Jerald and the others showed us back at the café. She says, “chè dau trang. Three,” into a small grid of red lights, and, in an instant, three small glass bowls appear on the silver counter under the dispenser. She gives a bowl to me and one to Brohn, but we both just stare at her as other customers nudge past us to place their own orders. The woman gestures with us to follow her, which we do. She leads us to a tall, round table in a quiet corner away from the front door and the big window. Holding up her own bowl, she announces that this concoction is “a delicious blend of coconut milk, mung beans, basil seeds, tapioca, and pomegranate over crushed ice.” She hands us each a spoon from a cup of utensils on the table. “Trust me,” she says, “you’ll love it.”

  Brohn and I exchange a look of caution before sampling the dessert.

  Brohn extends a hand across the table to the woman. “Brohn,” he says. “This is Kress.”

  The woman says, “I know.”

  When Brohn and I exchange another look, this time one of stunned surprise, the woman whispers for us not to worry. “I know the Major. I help her feed her crews.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Are you Chef Angelique?”

  Now it’s the woman’s turn to look surprised.

  “We’ve heard of you, too,” Brohn explains. “Thank you for risking so much for my sister.”

  Angelique shakes her head. “It’s no more than what she’s risking for the rest of us.”

  “She’s been through a lot,” I tell her. “We all have.”

  “And the Major is dedicated to sparing the rest of us from the same fate.”

  “We’re headed to Grace Cathedral,” Brohn says. “Do you know anything about it?”

  Angelique looks around but doesn’t answer right away. Finally, she tells us she lives there. “From time to time, anyway. It’s a sanctuary for a lot o
f us these days.” She pulls down the collar of her shirt to reveal a thick ring of reddish scar tissue around her neck. “It’s where those of us who’ve already had a taste of what the Patriot Army is really all about gather from time to time.”

  Brohn manages to offer his sympathy, but Angelique shrugs it off. “Just be careful. Not everyone will rush to join you in this rebellion against divisiveness, tyranny, and inequality. In fact, there are plenty of people in the world who thrive on those things. Now, I’ll leave you to your job, and I’ll get back to mine.” She adds, “Feeding you,” before offering up a broad, matronly smile as she stands and heads toward the door.

  With the woman disappearing from view, Brohn and I scarf down the last of our chè and get back to our sight-seeing before we return to our real mission of gathering troops from Grace Cathedral.

  It really is a very pretty city, all things considered. There are towering buildings, but also small parks with thick, green grass. And the colors. Having grown accustomed to living in rubble or else being on the run, I forgot what it was like to see so many hues. Along one of the residential streets we wander, there are houses mixed in with small businesses of every color: flamingo pink, duckbill orange, caterpillar green, canary yellow, mountain stream blue. It’s like someone detonated a box of crayons over the city.

  We take Broadway down to the waterfront where, off in the distance, over the Bay, we see the thick cloud hanging over what we now know to be the slums of Oakland.

  “Big difference, isn’t it?” Brohn asks.

  “It’s like Wisp said: Krug is all about barriers and walls.”

  “Maybe too much togetherness scares him,” Brohn suggests. “Like having everyone getting along and living on equal terms will make him irrelevant.”

  I ponder this idea for a minute. “Yeah, well, he’s right. But he’s still an idiot.”

  Now that we have a chance to take it all in, we get a much better sense of the tension behind the scenes. Despite the apparent day-to-day normalcy around us, the city is still under a kind of semi-martial law. There are Patriot Army troops, but there aren’t many, and they’re not especially well-armed or intimidating. But they are there, and they’re just the beginning. The advanced guard. The not-so-calm before the totally destructive storm on the horizon.

  Like us, most of the Patriots are teenagers or in their early twenties. They remind me of a pack of wolf puppies: They look playful, but they’re one growth-spurt away from being able to kill us all.

  Brohn and I walk along, laughing with contempt at the news scrolls advertising the saintliness of Krug and his government and at the viz-screen info-feeds still hailing his ongoing victories over the Eastern Order.

  “If only they knew,” I say.

  “They know,” Brohn says. “They might not know that they know. But they figure they can’t do anything about it anyway, so they gripe and brainwash themselves into thinking nothing they do matters.”

  “Then I guess it’s up to us to do something about it on their behalf.”

  “Might as well,” Brohn grins. “We’ve got nothing better to do anyway.”

  Brohn shouts out “Hey!” when I grab him by his jacket sleeve and sling him into the alley.

  “What was that for?”

  With my back to the alley wall, I motion for Brohn to stay quiet as I peer out across the street. There’s a man and a woman about a block away leading a six-man platoon of armed Patriot soldiers marching in our direction. The man strides along, brimming with confidence and determination. The woman is the one in the red jacket and cowl I recognize from my recon missions with Render in and around the Armory.

  “What is it?” Brohn asks.

  “It’s Ekker.”

  “Ekker?”

  “The Patriot Army general. The one who shot those two soldiers in the Armory. You know: the one in charge of making sure our rebellion fails and that we all die in the process.”

  “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “You never forget the face of a man who shot at you.”

  “Technically, he shot at Render.”

  “Technically, what’s the difference?” I snap. “He’s bad news. If he sees us, we’re dead.”

  “But he’s never seen us before, right? He won’t know who we are.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not true. Before he shot them, Render and I saw him interrogate those two soldiers who were on guard duty when we snuck into the city a few days ago. And if what Wisp says is true, that we’ve become some kind of local celebrities, my guess is he’ll know exactly what we look like and won’t be shy about shooting first and identifying our bodies later. Remember, they were told we died escaping the Processor. If they get even a whiff of the truth, they’re going to be on high alert for us.”

  Brohn says he’s convinced and grabs my hand as we scurry deeper down the alley, push through an uncharged metal security fence, and emerge on the other side of the block.

  “Do you think he saw us?” Brohn asks.

  I shake my head. “He was a man on a mission. But I don’t get the sense he was looking for us, specifically.”

  Brohn points down California Street past Huntington Park. “I think he was headed there.”

  “Grace Cathedral?”

  “If he knows it’s where people like Angelique are hiding out…”

  “What should we do? We can’t go charging after him and challenge him to a fight.”

  “Let’s follow him. See what happens.” I tap the comm-link behind my ear. “And then we can report back to Wisp. See if she has any ideas.”

  A quick tap to the comm-link returns nothing but static. I tap it again, but this time, even the static is gone, and I’m left with an empty echo bouncing around in my ear.

  “Must be on the blink,” I say to Brohn. “Try yours.”

  He does but with the same results. He tells me he’s sure it’s nothing to worry about and that we’d better get moving.

  Brohn and I cut into Huntington Park, ducking down behind a long row of thick green hedges until we come to a kneeling halt at the park’s perimeter.

  “I guess it could be a coincidence,” I pant. “Running into him, I mean.”

  “I guess.”

  “One way to find out.”

  “Render?”

  “Render.”

  I go to swipe the pattern onto my forearm that will enable my connection, but, like before, the connection happens before I finish the input.

  “He’s on the job,” I tell Brohn.

  Render glides onto a window ledge across the street.

  Out on the sidewalk, Ekker is talking to the figure in the red coat and cowl.

  I relay all this to Brohn, who tells me how impressed he is. “I don’t remember you being able to talk like this while you’re connected.”

  “You can thank your sister for that.”

  “Wisp? What did she do?”

  “A lot. She’s been teaching me new ways to think about my relationship with Render.”

  “Can she do anything about the creepy way your eyes still go all black like that?”

  I swat Brohn with the back of my hand and get back to channeling my vision through Render, but, to my surprise and shock, Ekker’s Patriots are still there, but Ekker and the woman in red have vanished.

  “Where’d they go?” I ask.

  Brohn peers over the hedge and turns back to me with a shrug. “I don’t know. But let’s not stick around to find out.”

  Now that I’ve got my bearings, I disconnect from Render and join Brohn in a stooped jog. We make our way across the street and down an alley running between the church and a smaller chapel. We cut right and head for the street up ahead, but before we get to the road, a tall, shadowy figure steps into the entrance of the alleyway.

  Brohn and I come to a skidding halt.

  “It’s Ekker,” I screech. “He doubled back!”

  We’re just about to turn around and make a run for it back the way we came when Ekker, in a move too f
ast for my eyes to follow, whips out a gun and fires.

  The blast explodes in a terrifying echo in the tight confines of the alley.

  Right next to me, Brohn is slammed up against the alley wall. He bounces off it and slumps to the ground, his eyes staring at the enlarging red splotch on his chest.

  In a flash, I’m sliding down to the ground and kneeling at Brohn’s side. Pushing away the broken pieces of an old wooden palette, I slide my hand under his neck and pull him part way up so he’s lying with his head on my lap.

  Leaning in close, I listen for a breath and press my fingertips to the side of his neck to feel for a pulse. When I scream out this name, Brohn moans a little and then his head lolls to the side, and he’s dead still. No breath. No pulse. No nothing.

  Frantically, I lower him back down, peel his jacket open, and press my hands to his chest, hoping to find a heartbeat. There’s nothing. Only the ooze of blood through his shirt.

  I’m shaking and saying “No” over and over under my breath. Like that will make a difference. Like that will change things. Like my will power alone is enough to bring Brohn back to life.

  Through an acid sting of tears, I look up to see Ekker, his big golden handgun hoisted on his shoulder, walking slowly toward us like a victorious hunter on a mission to gather his kill. The woman in red strides along next to him. On the sidewalk behind them, six members of the Patriot Army stand guard, shooing away curious pedestrians and making sure no one else enters the alley.

  Meanwhile, Ekker comes to a stop and stares down at me. “You’ve been looking for me,” he announces without inflection, like he’s telling me the time of day. He reaches back to hand his canon of a gun to the woman who takes it and lets it hang heavily at her side. Ekker turns back to me and looks around at the alleyway. I follow his gaze and realize I’m trapped. There’s no way I can get past the six soldiers out there on the sidewalk. There are no doors on the side of the cathedral next to me and nowhere to go. I wouldn’t leave Brohn anyway.

  Sliding over to put myself between Ekker and Brohn, I shake my head and start to object. I’m planning to tell him I don’t know who he is or what he’s talking about, but Ekker holds up his hand and tells me not to talk.