by Jim Heskett
A few nodded, most were unresponsive. She glanced at Yorick, and he didn’t seem too impressed with her battle speech prowess. What else was she supposed to say? They had to do this. Today. To find a way to make it work. They had to find it within themselves to achieve something not only great but probably impossible. To take on a superior army and defeat them while making no mistakes.
“We good?” she said.
Several of them nodded. A few stared at the ground, paralyzed. But not one of them said no. Not one of them said he or she wouldn’t join with the rest. Was passive agreement good enough?
“Today, we become guerreros,” Yorick said. “Today, we let Rosia lead us to our freedom. When this is over, we will open those gates and walk out of here, and whatever we make of the future, it’s going to be in our control. Our decision. Our lives.”
More heads nodded.
“Never again,” Rosia said, thumping her boot on the grass. “Never again will we be slaves for masters who use us. Never again will we cower to people who took their power without integrity. Today, we become the powerful ones. We make the rules from now on.”
Some of those with heads down lifted them, squinting against the sun. They even flattened their frowns into something showing a little measure of hope.
She checked Yorick, and he nodded with his brows raised, encouraging her to continue.
“You’ve spent your lives in the service of someone else,” she said. “A cruel man who only cares about what you can do for him. Now it’s time to tell him what we think about what we can do for him. Never again will we put up with these lies. Today, we’re going to take what’s owed to us. For us, and for everyone trapped inside these walls.”
Paulo stomped his foot, and Yorick joined him. Within a few seconds, all of them were stomping. Feet smacked against the grass, over and over.
She wanted to lose herself in the rhythm. Wanted to scream. Wanted to break down into tears. But, above all, she didn’t want them to see the fear flying around inside her brain. Didn’t want them to think she was anything less than a capable leader.
“Let’s go,” she said, and waved a shaky arm for the team to follow her.
They hiked across the grounds, wary of contact with any guard they saw. Rosia worried about the younger members. Despite the speech, they might crack as soon as the heat turned up. It didn’t matter. The heat would continue to rise, and they would either take part, or they would die. She could only hope they would die well if they had no other choice.
And, she had to hope the ones who died didn’t live atop her conscience for the rest of her life, however short that might be.
Or, maybe none of them had to die out here today. Maybe they would recall all their training and rise up to meet the occasion. So much rested on chance and decisions out of her hands.
At the edge of the battlefield, Wybert had, once again, joined today’s round. He stood, eyes off into the distance, staring at the apartment buildings in the block quadrant. A bright yellow jumpsuit made him stand out like a banana in the field. If they had found the dead bodies in the cafeteria or the body in the mansion, neither Wybert nor his guards made any motion to retaliate. They stood, stone-faced, along with the Royal Army.
“My patience is wearing thin!” Wybert shouted, seemingly out of nowhere. “Can you smell the blood in the water?”
No one reacted to his words. None of the soldados wore any expression on their faces, except for one. A man with eyes so green, Rosia didn’t think they were real. His eyes were all she could see of his face, due to the body armor covering him from head to toe. His green eyes shone out from underneath his helmet. Like beacons.
And he seemed agitated. He couldn’t stand still. The heavy rifle in his hands jittered back and forth. He shifted from one leg to another.
As the Blues approached the battlegrounds, Wybert turned and scowled at everyone.
“Good morning and good harvest, my guerreros. Feels like a big day, doesn’t it?”
Chapter Thirty
Yorick sprinted across the grounds toward the warehouse. Chaos and rubber bullets all around. Five minutes into the round, at least a third of all the guerreros had been taken out of contention already.
He didn’t know if the presence of Wybert and the soldados had set everyone on edge, but it was a strong possibility. It helped explain why he couldn’t swallow because of the fist-sized lump in his throat.
Wybert hadn’t given a speech this morning. Hadn’t said much of anything, only stood by, leering, arms crossed, thumping his foot on the ground. It was an unsettling sight. They were used to Wybert being grumpy, sneering, or outright malicious. But to see him so obviously stressed out was a new thing altogether.
How much did he know? In a few minutes, it wouldn’t matter anymore.
With his sights set on the northwest warehouse, Yorick dodged a stream of bullets that bounced off the ground a meter in front of his feet. Two Reds sitting atop a warehouse, taking shots at him as he raced by. He didn’t bother to return fire. This silly game didn’t matter now.
Out of the corner of his eye, Yorick watched a soldado Rosia had pointed out to him before the battle started. A guy with vibrant green eyes. The soldado was pacing back and forth, and as a young Blue streamed by, the soldado momentarily raised his rifle. What in the stars was that guy’s problem?
A couple meters ahead, that same Blue guerrero caught a rubber bullet to the chest. The light on his suit dimmed as he winced and placed a hand over the site of the shot. He’d been taken out by these rooftop Reds.
The soldado watched him take the bullet, grinning. He spoke to the Blue, his live rifle pointed at his feet. Agitated. Scowl on his face. Yorick didn’t like this situation. Something wasn’t right here. He changed course, racing toward the Blue and the soldado, standing close enough to touch each other. Yorick readied himself to intervene.
The soldado’s rifle drifted a few centimeters up. Now pointed at the Blue’s knees. They were in an argument, mouths moving, hands waving.
“Get away from him,” Yorick shouted at the soldado, closing the distance between them.
“Excuse me?” the soldado said, swinging his rifle up and toward Yorick. “Who do you think you are?”
Yorick came within spitting distance, so he stopped and made his body wide. He waved the Blue behind him. Yorick provided a shield and the soldado didn’t like it too much.
“What are you, some kind of savior?” the soldado said.
“He’s just a kid,” Yorick said, arms out, eyes locked with the green-eyed demon. “Why don’t you go bother someone older.”
“Like you?”
Yorick did his best not to cringe. This soldado had a rifle with real bullets. Yorick had inferior rubber ones, not good for much of anything. The real bullets for Yorick and his team were still hidden away in the warehouse.
Still, he didn’t back down. “Yeah, like me.”
But then, the soldado lifted a hand to his ear, nodding. Eyes staring off into space. Like he was receiving a message. Did he have a communication device small enough to fit inside his ear? Was that technology even possible?
The soldado dropped his hand, and Yorick got a look at it. A little black cylinder, sticking out of the soldado’s ear. Amazing. What other technology did the First City have?
“You’re lucky, kid,” the soldado said, then he turned and strutted away. He took a load of anger and hostility with him, leaving Yorick with his younger teammate.
“Thank you,” the young one said. “I don’t know what his deal is.”
“Don’t go to the neutral zone,” Yorick said after he swallowed a few times, trying to catch his breath. “Go to the southern edge of the warehouses and wait there. That’s an order.”
The Blue nodded and turned in that direction, which made the snipers atop the wall cock their heads and crease their brows. Dead players were supposed to take no action except immediately relocating to the neutral zone or sitting quietly in their spots.
Yorick raced across the warehouse grounds. He threw a shoulder into a door and crashed inside. While he expected to make a straight shot to the back, he came to a rude surprise. A volley of rubber bullets sliced the air in front of his face. He craned his neck around, hoping to possibly see some Blues who had shot at him by accident, but no such luck. A group of five Reds had been standing near pallets, in a circle. Discussing strategy or something, maybe. Whatever their reasons for being here, it no longer mattered. They were here and outnumbered Yorick five to one.
Not that he cared so much about being shot with fake bullets any longer. He had bigger concerns. But, he did duck behind the nearest pallet for cover, because a rubber bullet to the head did not feel good at all. It could knock you out and send you to the ground if placed just right. Leave you foggy for the rest of the day.
“Hey!” he shouted over the top of the pallet. The shooting did not stop. He could even hear their feet sliding across the concrete.
“Hey! Stop! We need to talk.”
“What could we possibly have to talk about?” said a deep voice. “You think you’re going to barter some bread or a secret book to make us let you walk out of here?”
“Not going to happen,” said another voice, this one young. Barely into puberty.
“No,” Yorick said. “I’m not here to talk about the round. I don’t care about the round. This is a lot bigger. Life and death.”
Some chuckles came from the other side of the pallet, then a few more bullets ricocheted off the floor. “Come on, Blue. You think we’re stupid?”
Yorick gritted his teeth. “Damn it, listen to me. I have an offer.”
For a brief second, the shooting did stop, then resumed, but only for a few more moments. Yorick held tight, trying to wait it out. If anything, he had to get past these idiotas to retrieve the real weapons.
After another few seconds, the shooting stopped completely.
“What do you want?” said the young one.
Yorick poked his head over the top of the pallet to find all five of them standing only two meters away, with rifles raised.
Finger off the trigger, Yorick set his rifle on the pallet and raised his hands. “I have something serious to tell you about.”
They frowned, but the shooting hadn’t resumed. Maybe telling them would be a terrible idea. Maybe they were fervent disciples of Diego and would immediately rush to him and inform him of everything. And maybe it didn’t matter what Diego knew or didn’t know.
He couldn’t control what these Reds did. All he could do was try to bring them in. So, Yorick had to place his hope on the idea that, Red or Blue, they were all serfs. They would be more invested in survival than they would be in winning a pointless round or tattling to Diego.
“What?” said one of the Reds.
“It’s all ending today. All of this.”
“What are you talking about?”
Yorick noted that, even though his head was visible and they were all still armed, they hadn’t shot him. He straightened up. “I will tell you, but you have to promise Diego won’t hear about it. He’ll ruin everything.”
None of them flinched at the mention of Diego. They shared some looks, but gave no hint they were opposed to the idea of keeping a secret from him. Diego’s own teammates didn’t like him. No surprise there.
“Okay,” the deep-voiced Red said. “Tell us what’s going on.”
“Revolution,” Yorick said.
Chapter Thirty-One
Tenney sat behind the trash can, eyes on the Quartermaster’s building. Malina was beside him, shivering. Not cold this morning, but she shivered nonetheless. He wrapped an arm around her, and she pressed her face against his shoulder. The locket around her neck tickled his forearm.
“Not long now,” he said as he spied the snipers on the walls. Tenney and his crew were hidden, for the moment.
She pulled away. “I know. I’m just… this is all so much.”
He kissed her forehead. “We’re going to come through on the other side. We’re going to survive this and thrive when it’s all over.”
“Free,” she said, trying to smile. Behind them, the chaos of the battlefield droned on. The guerreros in their round. Their last round.
Since she couldn’t quite force her lips to curve into one, he smiled for her. “I’ll be back soon. Before you know it.”
He waved a hand behind him, and a figure cloaked in black joined them. Estéban, one of the toughest and meanest field serfs Tenney had ever known. The sort of guy who could work all day and then drink until the sun came up, and then work all the next day without missing a beat.
“This is what we’ve been waiting for,” Estéban said. “I’m ready to bust some heads and let them know who we really are.”
“I know, but we need to think every action through. We need to be smart.”
Estéban shrugged. “That’s one way to look at it. Another way is: this is a great day to die.”
“Are you serious?”
Estéban nodded and slipped the hood up over his head. “Sure, why not? Let’s go.”
Tenney gave Malina a wink as he left her there. He and Estéban slipped to the back of the Quartermaster’s building. There were no windows and only one door. Heavy, metal, with a camera above the entrance.
But there was another way in.
They gave a wide berth to the front door to keep out of range of the camera. They skirted around to the side, moving low and fast to not attract the snipers. Tenney latched onto a storm drain at the corner of the single-story building. He hoisted himself up, grunting as he climbed toward the roof. Estéban followed him a moment later.
He threw one leg up and over, then pushed himself onto the flat roof of the building. And there it was: the emergency hatch, sitting at the center.
Tenney removed the lock picker device as he crept across the roof. Little bits of powdery white gravel crunched under his feet. Estéban slinked behind him. They settled on opposite sides of the hatch.
Tenney met Estéban’s eyes. The hooded on drew his knife and nodded.
“I changed my mind,” Estéban whispered. “It’s a good day for them to die.”
“I like that better.” Tenney sprung the hatch and Estéban dropped down inside. As Tenney slipped in after, he heard a confused shout on the way down. When his feet touched, he took in several things at once. The Quartermaster, leaping from a chair, his sights set on a pistol sitting on a table nearby. Also, how dirty and disorganized the space was. Shelves everywhere, littered with parts and bits of objects.
And Estéban, knife up, sprinting at the Quartermaster. Wybert’s man didn’t stand a chance. In addition to being as big as a bear, Estéban was lithe on his feet. He met the Quartermaster in two steps and jabbed the knife into the man’s back.
He screamed as he spun around, trying to remove the knife from his flesh. Droplets of blood flung around the room as he staggered, swatting at the blade. He lurched in Tenney’s direction, eyes wide, gasping, blood at the corner of his mouth.
The man stumbled forward at Tenney. Tenney tried to step out of the way, but he bumped into a desk. The Quartermaster slumped into him. They toppled to the floor. Tenney shoved him off, and then the man went limp on the floor next to him.
It had begun. This wasn’t a couple of guards quietly assassinated near the cafeteria. This was the Quartermaster. Someone important. Someone whose loss would enrage Lord Wybert.
Good. Let it begin.
“Tenney,” Estéban said. “You need to see this.”
Tenney scrambled to his feet to join Estéban, standing in front of the rows of shelves. Hands on his hips.
“What?” Tenney said as he crossed the room.
“Where are the guns?”
Tenney stood beside the larger man, and now he could see. The shelves were mostly empty. While there were sections to hold hundreds of guns and dozens of boxes of ammunition, he only saw a handful left. M
aybe twenty guns. A few hundred rounds of ammunition.
“What is this?” Tenney said.
Estéban could only shake his head.
This wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Yorick opened the trunk full of magazines as his new Reds companions looked on. They oohed and ahhed and stared wide-eyed as he withdrew the magazine from his rifle and inserted the chip deep inside it. The nose of the rifle briefly glowed blue and then faded. Aside from that, there was no way to tell it was different, but Yorick knew. He could feel it.
He inserted a magazine. “This is real,” he said to them. Grave heads around the room nodded. In turn, they removed their chips from the backs of their suits and inserted them into their rifles. If nothing else, Wybert and his minions would surely notice that multiple guerreros were disconnecting their chips at once without being shot by rubber bullets. Someone would come around to check or expect all these “malfunctioning” chips to be returned to the Quartermaster immediately.
One way or another, something would happen soon. They couldn’t turn back now even if they wanted to.
Yorick distributed loaded magazines to the guerreros and filled a backpack full of as many as he could. He gave a quick rundown of the events as he understood them: any moment now, either the guards would find out about the dead bodies and intervene, or the farm serfs would begin their revolt. Tenney was, at this moment, invading the Quartermaster’s office and raiding the hundreds of guns stored there.
One of the young Reds, this one named José, spoke up. “How long do we have?”
“Not long. Minutes. I don’t know when the farm serfs are coming, but it’s soon. There are pieces of this plan outside of our control. But, when it starts, we won’t have a choice. We either act, or we die in the crossfire.”
“Isn’t there something we can do?” said another guerrero. “Can’t we talk them out of it?”