by Jim Heskett
Had Hamon seen Camila? No time to signal him.
Yorick noticed a side hallway at the north end of the room. He sprinted toward it as bullets tore up chunks of carpet at his feet. If he remembered correctly, there were admin offices down this hall. Perhaps a clean way out.
With Rosia at his heels, he pushed open the door. A glowing green exit sign lit up the far end. Shades of a week ago echoed in his mind. Then, in a holding facility, captured by his parents. Meters away from freedom, before the cage doors slammed down.
But today, no cage doors appeared. The door opened behind him as they were halfway along. Halfway to freedom. Someone had caught up to them, and Yorick wasn't sure which one. White Flames or Zan’s guard? Either way, it didn't matter. Everyone was his enemy at the moment.
Bullets flew over his shoulder and into the walls and ceiling around him. Before Yorick reached the door, he turned and grabbed Rosia’s hand to pull her along. They hit the door release at the same time and fled into the parking lot behind the brothel. Away from danger, but away from the safety of their hiding spot, as well.
Whatever happened next, they were exposed and on their own.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Diego wandered down Blake Street, hands in his pockets, staring at the blue sky above. A stroll always did him good, but this wasn’t any normal stroll. Diego was hunting a ghost. A ghost he thought he’d seen earlier near the bombed-out tea shop. He had to be sure.
At midday, the late summer sun baked the streets and sent waves of vapor into the air, making everything blurry. He enjoyed the winter weather here in the First City. The sun shined even on the cold days, and so when it snowed, it melted quickly. Always white, always fresh.
Of the forty-eight computer engineers tasked with working on the king’s Operation Home project to install spy software in the plantación computer network, Diego had interviewed forty of them. The ones who had been unavailable, either because they were ill or not presently in the city, Diego would automatically cut from the program. Of the ones he had actually spoken to, he had strong feelings about a dozen of them. Strong enough that when he would meet with the king later this evening, he planned to advise Nichol to have those engineers executed. If the remaining engineers couldn't handle the work on their own, then they didn't deserve the honor of serving the king.
Maybe a public execution for the dozen. Diego didn’t know if the king favored such a spectacle. That had been one quality of Lord Wybert’s that Diego appreciated. Putting dissidents and other criminals up against the wall. Leaving the bloodstains there for the rains to wash off. Nothing sends a message better than a final punishment for the rule breakers.
Diego turned the corner to see the remnants of the city’s baseball stadium. The last game had been played there a few decades before. He had never had much interest in sports, and apparently, neither had the rest of the kingdom during his lifetime. Now the stadium had become home to vagrants and dealers of illicit experiences.
Across the street from the stadium was a small building with a crucifix displayed on the front. Diego only knew the name of the symbol because he asked about it the last time he'd been in town. A Christian marking.
There were few of these Christians and their churches in Denver, but he had no problem with them. They seemed genuinely interested in things like community service and helping the homeless. That was fine with Diego as long as they didn't gain too much power. Even altruistic groups could fall victim to corruption.
He strolled by this building with the crucifix and looked in the windows to hunt for his ghost. It looked much bigger on the inside, crowded and disorganized. There were cots placed at intervals. A cafeteria-style food bar stood at one end of the room and a line of shabby and slumped men and women proceeded along that food bar line, filling trays with provided food. A soup kitchen.
Diego paused to observe the people inside. These men and women with their dour faces, many of them light-skinned. It made sense. Some places would not hire Frenchies, and sometimes landlords would not rent apartments to them. He wondered why they even bothered to stay in Denver instead of moving somewhere east where those people were much more accepted.
And then, Diego's jaw tightened when he saw the ghost.
He was almost sure now he had seen the face of a plantación farm serf named Tenney. A big brute of a young man with large feet and large hands. He ambled through the food line with one arm in a sling and a limp as he shuffled. Even though he didn't look homeless, his face was as grim—maybe even more so—than the rest of them.
It had been several weeks since Diego had seen Tenney at the plantación. But it had to be him here, now. No doubt.
Diego opened the door. His mind whirled with confusion as he stepped inside. The king had said everyone from the plantación was dead. Had the king lied, or was he misinformed? Who else from the plantación had escaped?
If true, this information changed a lot of things.
As Diego’s boots clomped across the painted concrete floor, Tenney turned. His eyes met Diego's. At that moment, he knew for certain he’d been right to follow this man from downtown to here.
The farm serf. Alive, in Denver.
The realization spread across Tenney’s face at the same time. Diego shot a grin at him.
Tenney dropped his tray and ran to the end of the food line. He bumped into several people, a limp making him unable to maneuver in a straight line.
Diego launched after him. He tossed a few people out of his way, and the rest jumped aside to clear a path.
Tenney reached the end of the line and ducked right, through a set of double doors, into a kitchen. Diego pursued, half a second behind.
He found he had no trouble catching up with Tenney. The young man was obviously injured and surprised, so Diego didn’t even bother to reach full speed.
As he burst through the kitchen, he saw Tenney flat on his face on the tile floor, a streak of chicken noodle soup spilled near his feet. He’d probably slipped in it. A moan came from his lips, and Diego noted a spot of blood on the floor next to his head.
Tenney tried to push to his feet, but he seemed dazed. He only had one good arm, the other pinned against him by a cheap sling. He made it up to one knee, then he slid back down.
Diego grabbed him by the arm in the sling and spun him over, onto his back. Tenney howled in pain.
Before he could make any moves, Diego reached into his boot and drew a hunting knife. Tenney’s eyes bulged, but Diego didn’t give him time to react. He jabbed the blade into Tenney’s stomach, twisting it on the way in. Fourteen centimeters, all the way to the hilt.
Tenney groaned as he tried to scoot away.
Diego drew the knife, giving it another little twist on the way out. An arc of blood followed it into the air and landed on Tenney’s chest.
Diego held the knife in the air, poised to strike again. He could smell the bile wafting from the injury. Blood trickled from the end of the knife, little drops splattering on Tenney’s face. "How did you get out?"
Tenney gulped breaths. Diego couldn't tell if he was trying to speak or not. Then, he whispered something, a hoarse gurgle. Diego leaned closer and turned his ear towards Tenney’s mouth.
“Your brother will avenge me,” Tenney croaked.
Diego frowned down at him. "Brother? What are you talking about? Who else escaped with you? Did all of the serfs get out? What about the Blue guerreros like Paulo, Rosia, and Yorick? Any of the Reds? Are they in Denver with you?”
Tenney said nothing, but there was something in his eyes when Diego had said the word Yorick. He was hiding something, trying to keep it inside.
Brother?
A few years ago, Diego and his father had taken a fishing trip together in the Montana mountains. One night, Laertes had gotten quite drunk and mentioned something about Diego having a younger brother who had been sold to a plantación. Diego, since a young age, had been told a story about his little brother dying in a car accident. He’d had vague
memories of a younger sibling named Franco, but couldn’t ever remember his face. Since Diego had spent most of his formative years at a boarding school in New Mexico, this little brother had been only a blip. The dead little brother whose name his parents would rarely say out loud.
The following morning on the fishing trip, when Diego asked his father about it, Laertes denied ever saying anything like that. But Diego had always been suspicious.
Brother?
Could that idiota Blue be this brother?
"It's Yorick, isn't it?"
Diego stood, gripping the knife in his hand. He now noted the half-dozen kitchen workers standing around, staring in disbelief at the scene. Many of them were Frenchies. "Stop looking at me," Diego said. "Go back to your pinche jobs." All of them averted their eyes.
Diego looked back down to Tenney. A significant puddle of blood had spread out from his midsection. Tenney’s face had gone as white and pale as a banshee. He hiccuped a few breaths, growing shallower and shallower. And then, his eyes went blank. Diego leaned down and wiped the muck from his blade on Tenney's dirty shirt.
“I hope you fare well, serf. Yorick and Rosia are alive, aren't they?"
He sneered at the corpse on the floor as he inserted his knife back into its sheath.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Yorick waited outside the building with Rosia and Hamon. They didn’t want to go in. They wanted to catch Alejandro before the evening meeting started. He didn’t know when that would happen, but given the flurry of activity out here, it had to be soon.
Dozens entered and left the building, barely caring about being seen. With their revolution impending, maybe it no longer mattered. Maybe the wheels of war were already in motion. Yorick had to hope that wasn’t true.
They needed more time. Nothing had gone right. If the city went to war tomorrow, they might not be able to navigate through the chaos.
“Where’s Tenney?” Hamon asked.
Rosia winced. “I don’t know. He didn’t meet us at the tea shop today. Since we left Wyoming, he's had a rough time, and honestly, we don’t know what to do for him. He wanted to be on his own for a while.”
“Never a good idea,” Hamon said. “We should be together if and when this all goes down.”
Yorick nodded. “I agree, but it was his decision. It’s okay, though. We trust him. We’ll catch up with him later. Somewhere.”
“We’re not going back to the brothel,” Hamon said. “That’s for sure. We’ll all be shot on sight if we walk in there.”
But, Yorick knew Diego’s keycards were in that locker. They might not have a choice since any other way into the building seemed impossible.
“You didn’t have to flee with us,” Rosia said to Hamon with a sad smile on her face. “I know you wanted to be there.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. I think my time there was done, anyway. The fact that they had Camila meant they knew all about me sneaking out with you. Or, that’s what I thought at the time, at least.”
“What do you mean?” Yorick asked.
“I saw her this afternoon. She didn’t sell you out.”
Yorick hadn’t even known if she’d survived when the White Flames assaulted the brothel. “So, you could go back, if you wanted.”
“I don’t think so,” Hamon said, shaking his head. “If these people are as serious as they say, it won’t matter. To get to the king, I can’t spend any more time collecting information in the brothel. I need to act, and I can’t do that from under Zan’s thumb.”
Yorick put a hand on his older friend’s shoulder. “We’re glad you’re with us.”
“Thank you,” he said.
Then, across the street, Yorick spotted Alejandro, carrying a duffel bag as he skulked down the alley.
“Should we all go?” Rosia asked.
“No,” Yorick said. “I don’t want him to feel like we’re ambushing him. Wait here. I’ll go talk to him.”
Yorick crossed the street, and the kitchen worker and revolutionary Alejandro offered a dip of the head as a greeting when Yorick joined him.
“I heard about what happened at the brothel earlier today,” Alejandro said. “White Flames?”
“Yes. They were looking for us. Me and Rosia. We got away, but they caused a lot of damage.”
He shook his head. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Where were you?”
“I quit my job last night,” Alejandro said. “It won’t matter now. I’m needed here, with the resistance. Have you come to help?”
“I’ve come to ask you to wait. To postpone your war until we can figure some things out.”
Alejandro pursed his lips. “It’s out of my hands now. Everything is in motion. Tomorrow, we start the attacks on the soldados, and we storm the building.”
Shades of the plantación came back to haunt Yorick’s thoughts. Only a few weeks ago, he’d asked Tenney to delay his rebellion against Lord Wybert. Tenney had also refused.
“Are you sure this is the right way?” Yorick asked.
“It’s the only way. The king grows more paranoid every day. We received information that he has called back soldados who are out east. They’ll be here in a few days, so we can’t wait any longer.”
“How big is your army?” Yorick asked.
“Big enough.”
“Is it? Because I’ve seen the soldados. I’ve seen the vids of them training. I’ve seen the barracks for the thousands and thousands of them on the west side of town.”
Alejandro adopted a pitying smile. “That’s all propaganda. A big show to make everyone afraid of a little despot who has a tiny amount of power. He has even less sense, amigo.”
“What’s your plan?”
“We strike hard and fast, from all sides. We will destroy his meager bands of soldados and take back this city.”
Yorick didn’t know if he believed it. Alejandro and the Frenchies claimed to have thousands of troops incoming, but who knew if he could produce them. Yorick had a sinking feeling that this attack would be over in an hour or two, and then the king would tighten everything. New restrictions would erase any possible attempt at sneaking into the capitol building.
“At least give us the morning.”
Alejandro considered. “Like I said, it’s out of my hands. But there’s a chance our forces outside the gates won’t be here until the afternoon, or maybe even later. A lot will depend on that. If they aren’t here by midday, we may wait until sundown.” He paused, eying Yorick. “Have you reconsidered giving us the chip?”
Yorick shook his head. “We want it for something specific. It’s not a tool of war.”
“It’s a shame you feel that way.”
Yorick regarded this young man. “Why aren’t you trying harder to get the chip away from me? You seemed convinced last night it could disrupt their communications.”
Alejandro shrugged. “It’s probably too late to reprogram it now, anyway. And, we’re not like them. Not like the king’s people. You say you won’t give it, then it’s not my place to force you. We value freedom. I think you’re making the wrong choice, but it’s your choice to make.”
Yorick breathed, unsure how to take all this. Maybe his distrust of Alejandro and these Frenchies had been misplaced.
“We’re on the same side,” Alejandro said. He reached into his back pocket and produced a cluster of white bandannas. “When the attack happens, you and your friends should put these on. Our people at least won’t shoot you on sight if you’re wearing one. But, it would be best, if you’re not going to join in, for you stay out of the way until it’s over.”
“How do you know you’ll win?”
“We don’t. But, we’re going to try. You know, I did some research on that Lord you killed. He was on our side. I understand why you rebelled against him, but he did a lot for us.”
Yorick stared, mute.
“He used you, yeah, but his software training programs and his robots will tip the war. We couldn’t have done this withou
t him.”
“We didn’t know any of that.”
“I understand.” He extended a hand, which Yorick shook. “Good evening and good fortune, Yorick of Wyoming.”
Alejandro hitched the duffel bag up over his shoulder and strode away. And, just like that, Yorick was alone on the sidewalk. He cast a glance over at Rosia, and gave her a slight shake of the head. She frowned but tried to hide it.
Like it or not, the revolution would happen tomorrow. Yorick had less than a day to figure out how to get inside that capitol building to spread his virus, or it might all have been for nothing.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Diego waited for the housekeeper to open the entryway to the king’s entertainment room. When the door opened, Diego peered inside to a room full of wonders, unlike anything he had ever seen. A video screen as large as some of the outdoor ones, taking up the majority of one wall. Plus, a billiards table, multiple computers, and several stations for exercise. Although, the king didn’t seem like the sort of person who engaged in regular exercise.
The furnishings were ringed with gold, marble floors with bearskin rugs placed every few meters. Diego had seen bears in Wyoming a few times, but never one this close.
“My boy,” the king said, and Diego swiveled his head around to look for him. King Nichol was off to the side, in a large tub set into the floor, with bubbling water and steam rising from it. Diego had heard of these heated tubs before, but he couldn’t recall the name.
King Nichol waved him forward, the exposed flesh on the upper half of his body jiggling. Diego had a sinking fear that the king’s lower half—currently obscured by the roiling bubbles in the water—was also unclothed, so he didn’t want to come too close.
The king didn’t seem to mind Diego keeping his distance, so he set his feet apart and clasped his hands, like a soldado at attention.
“Good evening, dear Diego. I do appreciate how willing you are to come see me at night. You know, all day long there are meetings and security briefings and petitions from commoners. Never a moment to myself. It’s why I refuse to go down into the offices below after the sun sets. Even a king needs his leisure time, don’t you agree?”