by Alex London
Syd stirred. He felt himself set down on a cot and then felt the cool metal of Liam’s hand slide out from under his neck, gently resting his head on a pillow. He opened his eyes and knew he’d passed out in the alley. His nose still held the faint smell of burning corpses.
He looked up at Liam’s pale face, the scattered freckles on the slightly crooked nose and the patchy red hair growing in uneven stubble on his chin. His dark red eyebrows were scrunched together with worry, the light blue eyes damp and searching. Memories flashed: Liam throwing the body of the would-be assassin over the railing; Liam holding Finch up in the air by one hand; Liam shooting Marie through the shoulder. How could a killer have such gentle eyes?
Beside Liam, the weathered face of the old doctor looked down curiously. The doctor’s eyes were ringed with dark circles, the exhaustion of any medical man in service of the Reconciliation. His face was drawn, pale; Syd made out the faintest traces of the blue of his veins running beneath his skin. Another memory flash. The nopes, the grotesque webbing of their bulging black veins, the silencing of their screams as they were hacked apart. Syd shut his eyes, cleared his head, opened them again to see Dr. Rahat looking to his side, to the spot behind his ear, where the four letters of his name were written. Yovel. Syd bent his neck to block the doctor’s view and pushed himself up onto his elbows.
“I’m okay,” he told Dr. Rahat.
Liam closed the curtain around the cot area and fixed his eyes on Dr. Rahat. The man wore the uniform of the Reconciliation, but Liam couldn’t trust anybody except himself when it came to Syd’s safety. No one had Syd’s best interests at heart, not like he did.
“What seems to be troubling you, son?” Dr. Rahat asked.
“He fainted,” Liam said.
“I can speak for myself.” Syd glared at Liam, then looked back at the doctor. “I passed out. I’m okay now. My bodyguard is just overcautious.”
“Well, that’s not a bad thing to be.” Dr. Rahat smiled kindly. “You are the hero of our revolution, after all. Without you, where would we be? Why don’t we give you a quick once-over, just to be on the safe side?”
“He came into contact with the blood of several nonoperatives, who were . . .” Liam didn’t know how to describe it.
“Infected,” the doctor finished for him.
“I swear, I’m fine,” said Syd. “It was just seeing . . . what happened to those Guard—the nonoperative entities. It made me sick.”
The doctor nodded, stroking his beard. “You’re a sensitive soul, Yovel—”
“Call me Syd,” he interrupted him.
The doctor nodded. “So many of the proxies have taken on new names, and you, being, well . . . I didn’t want to presume . . .”
“It’s fine,” Syd reassured him. “I prefer it, actually.”
“Very well,” the doctor said. “You needn’t worry about these nonoperatives. They do not suffer when they are put down. In fact, we are putting an end to their suffering.”
“By clubbing them to death?” Syd replied.
“Since the Reconciliation has wisely seen fit to restrict passive weaponry, we’ve found that the most ideologically consistent way to terminate them is through blunt force trauma. That way the labor and its object remain connected. The old ways—press a button, take a life—well, those won’t do, will they? If we are to kill, we must do so with absolute commitment. It may not be humane, but it is far more human.”
“You ever consider not killing them?” Syd suggested.
“They will die anyway.” He sighed. “You saw, I believe, that they are all dying.”
“They’re sick,” said Syd. “What’s wrong with them?”
“It appears to be an infection,” the doctor said. “Harmless to regular humans, I assure you, but just in case, for the public safety, we must contain their infection wherever we find it. There are too many of them wandering about for us to take chances.”
“If the infection can’t spread to regular humans,” Syd wondered, “then why put down the Guardians at all?”
“The nonoperative entities,” the doctor corrected again. “Our society must allocate its resources effectively. If we were to attempt the support of thousands of infected nonoperatives, while people starved, would that be humane? We must make choices.”
“This isn’t a choice,” Syd objected. “It’s a convenience. It’s easier to—”
“Ouch!” Marie yelled from the other side of the curtain. “You could warn me before you go poking your fingers into my wound!”
“Stop squirming and we’ll get this fixed!” the medic treating her grumbled. “Hold her down.”
They heard Marie grunt and exhale loudly. Whatever they were doing to fix her wound, they were not doing it gently. The doctor’s eyes darted once to the bolt gun on Liam’s belt. Then they went back to Syd. “Let’s get you checked out,” he said. “To be on the safe side.”
“Really, I’m fine,” Syd told him, sitting all the way up and dangling his legs off the cot. “I need to go talk to the Council.”
The doctor set a hand on his shoulder and stopped him from getting up. “Humor an old doctor. As long as you’re here, we might as well make sure everything’s in working order, no?”
Syd looked at him. The doctor looked back, unflinching. He was determined to examine Syd and Syd decided the easiest way to get out of here quickly would be to let him. He relented with a nod.
“Please remove your clothes,” the doctor instructed.
Syd looked at Liam, cleared his throat. “A little privacy?”
Liam hesitated. Syd pointed.
“I’ll be on the other side of the curtain,” Liam said.
“Oh, how will we ever bear to be apart?” Syd replied.
“Don’t run off again,” Liam added.
“Or what?” Syd asked.
An answer formed on Liam’s lips, but he didn’t say it. Staring at him, Syd could swear his bodyguard mouthed the word “waterfall” to himself, then turned and passed through the curtain.
Once Liam was gone, Syd peeled off his clothes and submitted to an entirely pointless medical exam.
He wasn’t sick and he knew it. He was disgusted.
For that, medicine had no cure.
• • •
On the other side of the curtain, Liam scanned the room. On the cot, Marie lay staring at the ceiling of the tent, while three medics worked on reconnecting the tissue of her shoulder that his bolt had severed. Although most tech had been banned by the Reconciliation to prevent the germs of greed, sloth, isolationism, and inequality from spreading, medics still had some more advanced items. Left without a little old tech, Marie would never have been able to use her arm again. Liam knew how to disable a person.
Through the medical tent, he saw the vague outlines of the Purifiers moving around as people began to gather. Word must have gotten out that Yovel himself was inside. Liam would have to get Syd away from here as soon as possible. The area wasn’t secure enough for his liking and this cadre of Purifiers wasn’t well trained enough to contain an overexcited crowd, even if there were no Machinists among them.
The people outside formed an indistinct mass. As the breeze blew the gauzy mosquito netting, it distorted their silhouettes. They bent and twisted, looked like a monstrous horde, like another wave of feral nopes shambling in from the wilderness.
The city was changing so much faster than Liam could process. All his life it had been little more than a military installation and Liam didn’t like all these new people coming in. Now that the revolution was the government, they saw fit to rebuild Old Detroit and evacuate Mountain City. The people came in as refugees by the tens of thousands. The streets were cleared of jungle debris and filled with human activity.
And with the people came the nopes.
He’d fought them when they were Guardians, of course. T
hat was part of his job. He’d snuck into the Mountain City and tried to outsmart them, outrun them, and outfight them. They were fearsome opponents. Liam flexed his metal hand. He hadn’t always won those fights.
But now they weren’t Guardians anymore. They were basically dead already. He’d seen them hauling rocks or turning pistons to power spring loaders. He’d seen them fall from the dam construction project and not even make a sound as they fell. Now they were carrying some new disease. It didn’t bother Liam to see them put down. Good riddance.
But it bothered Syd, who had no doubt known them better than Liam ever did, who had suffered at their hands and the hands of the system they enforced far more than Liam ever had. Why should Syd care for them now? Was something wrong with Liam that he didn’t?
He glanced over his shoulder to a gap in the curtain. He saw through the sliver Syd’s broad brown back, its muscle tight as wire underneath the skin. Along the side of his rib cage, there were burns and scars from a young life that had been filled with wounds, but the untouched places were smooth and almost shone gold in the afternoon light.
Liam had a view of four letters behind Syd’s right ear that made the word “Yovel,” the mark that branded him the savior. The story was legend now: Syd’s long-dead father had implanted baby Syd with a computer virus and sent him off to the Mountain City, an anonymous orphan, his name assigned by a database. He was networked and tracked, his debt was purchased, and he was in the system. But hidden inside the official programming in his blood, his father’s virus grew.
When it was ready, when it was mature enough to tear apart the network, erase all the records, sever all connections, it showed a symbol on his skin, that four-letter word just behind his ear, Yovel. Jubilee: the day when all debts were forgiven. But Knox, Syd’s patron, had been infected too by a blood transfusion, and when they arrived in Old Detroit, he also bore the word behind his ear.
An accident of fate.
So Knox stepped into the machine that spread the virus from Old Detroit to Mountain City and all the wastelands in between. He let it irradiate him, vaporize him as that bit of code overwhelmed every transmitter, every datastream, and every system. The network went down.
When it was done, Knox was no more than a toxic bit of ash, and Syd’s symbol remained, a scar, an echo of the name he’d had and the future he’d been spared.
Liam could only imagine what it felt like to carry that mark and all the rest that went with it. He himself had never been networked, never had biodata installed. He’d been born apart and raised to fight. Having no data made it easier for him to slip in and out of Mountain City undetected. There were times he wondered what it might be like to have access to the datastream, but now it was gone; he was one of the few alive who didn’t miss it. He wondered whether Syd missed it.
Liam lost his hand for the revolution, but loss was easy. Addition was hard. How do you become something more than yourself? Inspiring others. Manifesting their dreams. It was a burden Liam was glad not to carry, knew he wasn’t strong enough to carry. He preferred his role in history to be small, narrowly defined. Keep Syd safe.
Dr. Rahat ordered Syd to turn and Liam caught his breath as the sinewy chest came into view, the scar across his collarbone from a childhood knife fight, the small trail of hair rising to his belly button, the soft skin of his neck, the dark obsidian shine of his eyes staring back at—
Liam turned away quickly. Studied his boots. He felt himself blushing. Had he been staring? Had Syd seen him staring? Why was he staring? Syd was just an assignment, and a difficult one at that. Liam had to remember: an assignment.
Syd mattered to the Reconciliation, so Syd had to be protected. Liam didn’t have to feel anything about Syd beyond that.
Shouldn’t feel.
Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t.
Maybe Syd hadn’t noticed the look. Or maybe he figured it was just Liam being cautious, making sure the doctor didn’t harm his patient. Machinist assassins everywhere; one can never be too careful.
What an idiot, Liam cursed himself. Focus on the job. No emotion.
Waterfall. Waterfall. Waterfall.
He sighed and looked up.
And he met Marie’s gaze. Lying on the cot, she looked at him with just the faintest hint of purple still in her eyes. And on her lips, the slightest smirk forming around the edges.
In a moment, Syd stood beside Liam.
“Take me to the Advisory Council,” Syd said. “I need to speak to them immediately. And someone should bury the Guardians we left in that alley.” He turned to the doctor again. “Bury. Not burn.”
The doctor nodded, scratching absently at an itch on his cheek, and Syd stormed outside. Just before Liam rushed after him, he glanced back at Marie.
“Interesting,” Marie said, but Liam didn’t have time to say anything back. He had to get Syd through the crowd. That was his job. He had to do his job. Keep Yovel alive. Nothing more and nothing less.
[8]
“YOUR CONCERNS HAVE BEEN noted.” The chair of the Advisory Council leaned forward on her kneeling mat and pressed her index fingers together in a triangle. Her voice echoed in the cavernous space of the empty factory.
She looked from Syd, seated on his own mat before the semicircle of Advisory Council members in the center of the factory floor, to Liam, kneeling beside him with his hands folded in his lap. Unlike Syd and the eighteen counselors, Liam did not have a mat to kneel on and the hard floor pressed into his knees. Beads of sweat collected on his upper lip, and he could feel several more making a mad dash for escape down his back.
Behind the Council, a ring of white-masked Purifiers stood with their clubs hanging from their belts, ready to do the Council’s violence, should such violence be called for, or to protect them, should such protection become necessary.
“I don’t just want my concerns noted,” Syd objected. “I want them heard!”
“And we hear them,” Chairwoman Pei responded, her voice hard as stone. She was not accustomed to argument from teenagers during her Council meetings. “Your concern for the nonoperative entities speaks greatly of your compassion, but poorly of your intellect. Nonoperatives are not people and thus, cannot be—what did you call it?”
“Murdered,” Syd said.
“Can livestock be murdered?” a counselor to Syd’s left mused aloud. “Can feral cats be murdered?”
“The Guardians were born people,” said Syd. “The old system transformed them. They’re as much victims as any of the proxies you’ve trained to kill them.”
“Mind your tone,” Chairwoman Pei snapped.
“I’m just saying, it’s not right to kill them like that.”
“There is no right or wrong with nonoperative entities,” the chairwoman replied.
“If I may,” Counselor Baram, kneeling just to the chairwoman’s left, interrupted. She glared at him. There was no love lost between Counselor Baram and Chairwoman Pei, that was plain to see. Baram addressed Syd without looking at her again. “The nopes—as some have taken to calling them—have no volition. They cannot act with any intention of their own; they cannot think for themselves, or speak, or even recognize themselves in a mirror. There is no definition of personhood that can be applied to them. They may have been born like other people, but they are no longer. It is a mercy for us to end their suffering.”
“I wonder if they would agree,” said Syd.
“They can neither agree nor disagree,” said Baram.
“So that, like, makes it okay to kill them?” Syd wished he had Baram’s way with words. He never was great at arguing. “Because they can’t complain?”
“Because they never knew they were alive to begin with,” Baram countered.
“How do you know?” Syd asked.
“We will not sit here and argue philosophy with a teenager,” the chairwoman snapped at Syd. “We decide
the best course of action for society and our decision is made.”
“But there are other ways than killing them!” Syd pleaded. “You can look for a cure for what’s wrong with them, but you don’t want to. It’s more convenient to get rid of them because they remind everyone of the past. And the Reconciliation is all about the future, right?”
“And what is wrong with looking to the future?” another counselor asked.
“You can’t just erase the past,” said Syd.
“You assume the worst of us, Sydney,” said Baram. “We have worked on a cure, but found none. For the safety of all, extermination of the nonoperatives is the only viable solution.”
“It can’t be,” Syd said. “Do you even know what’s wrong with them? Do any of you even care?”
“We have done our best to find a cure!” a counselor whose name Syd couldn’t remember blurted out. “And all our researcher found was Machinist propaganda and—”
“Pardon, Counselor,” the chairwoman interrupted the man with a clap of her hands.
The offending counselor blushed and hung his head. The chairwoman nodded over her shoulder and two Purifiers stepped forward.
“You are tired and speak against protocol,” she told him. “Perhaps you should rest.”
“I . . . I . . .” The counselor turned pale, looking around the semicircle in wide-eyed panic, but before he could say another word, he was lifted from his place and dragged away into the darkness beyond the circle.
Syd knew he would not be seen again.
“You may not think we are doing the right thing by eliminating these entities.” The chairwoman turned back to Syd. “But it is not up to you. We make the determinations that are best for society. These determinations are not made by seventeen-year-olds.”
“So a cure isn’t good for society?” Syd pressed.
“A cure is not politically viable at this time,” the chairwoman replied. “And our discussion of this is over. Our decision is final.”
“The Purifiers enjoyed the slaughter,” Syd said.