Blood Zero Sky

by Gates, J.

“Piece of cake,” McCann says, smiling.

  I turn to Ethan. “You did that deliberately, didn’t you?” I ask. “Bringing up my promotion at the end of the meeting, when they were all too tired to argue about it.”

  Ethan only winks at me.

  “Never underestimate our general, Miss Fields. He has the finest mind for strategy around,” McCann says, then gives me a hearty pat on the shoulder, “Congratulations, First Lieutenant.”

  I hardly know what the promotion means, but I feel a swelling of pride anyway.

  “Don’t congratulate her yet,” Ethan says. “If we get out of the Stock Exchange alive, you can congratulate her then.”

  —Chapter Ø17—

  My promotion comes with a new shirt with some stripes on the shoulder and a crapload of work. Basically, my job is to follow Ethan around and help him make all the preparations for the raid. We spend the first morning reviewing stores and provisions. One hundred of the Protectorate’s finest soldiers will be taking part in the operation, and they’ll need enough food, supplies, and ammunition for three days away in the field.

  Ethan takes me to a blocked-off section of tunnel where we’re met by the two young Asian men I saw checking guns the first time I came into camp. Supply officers Wang and Monroe, as Ethan introduces them. He hands them each a paper with the words “requisition sheet” at the top. The two men look at it, exchange a few quiet words and nod.

  “The packs and food will be fine, but I’m not sure about the sniper weapons. We have a few of them here and more coming soon, but we’ve been having trouble getting a hold of the lenses for the scopes.”

  “I’ll check with R on it,” Ethan says. “It’s imperative we have them by Thursday morning at the latest.”

  “We’ll try,” Monroe says, sounding a bit dubious.

  “We’ll get it done, sir,” Wang asserts.

  Just then, a sound in the tunnel behind them draws their attention, and the two men excuse themselves. There’s a strange, rhythmic clacking noise I’ve never heard before. I put one hand on my sidearm, ready for the worst, but Ethan seems unfazed. He steps over to a rack of ceramic rifles and begins examining one. Wang and Monroe, too, seem relaxed as a shape coalesces out of the darkened tunnel and approaches them. My heart beats faster when I realize what I’m seeing. It’s a horse, pulling a wagon!

  “Ethan!” I nearly shout.

  “What?” he asks, sighting down the barrel of the rifle.

  “There’s a horse pulling that wagon!” I exclaim. I’ve never seen one before in my life—except in movies.

  “Very good,” Ethan agrees dryly. “Ninety percent of our supplies come from Company shipments. We break into the computer network, adjust the shipping quantities, then our people on the inside take what we need—and nobody in the Company is the wiser. It works for food, clothing, medicine, almost everything. The only things we manufacture ourselves are weapons and ammunition. We have a small factory in a secret location that produces them for us. And we grow some limited quantities of food, too. N-Chow might keep an army alive, but it won’t keep it happy.”

  “But why the horse?” I ask.

  “Getting a hold of gasoline is tricky and the Company is pretty good at monitoring their electric grid, but there’s plenty of grass out past the industrial arc for a horse to graze on.”

  Ethan sets the rifle back down on the rack as I watch Wang, Monroe, and a couple of burly men who must’ve been on the cart unload large sacks of N-Chow and stack them on pallets against one wall of the tunnel.

  “Let’s go,” Ethan says, “They’ll take care of the requisitions. We’ve got work to do.”

  ~~~

  Over the next few days, I learn more about the Protectorate than I ever thought possible.

  I learn that so far, 523 Protectorate members and 711 squadmen have been killed in a secret war that has been simmering for years, unknown to nearly everyone in the Company.

  I learn that five years ago, N-Corp added facial recognition software to their security cameras, so every Order operative who wants to go back in and perform clandestine missions is required to get plastic surgery to alter their appearance.

  I learn that the Protectorate has an elite division called “The Reapers,” whose job it is to comb the countryside in search of wandering unprofitables or any people living outside the Company, assess their mental state, and, if appropriate, recruit them. Some Reapers even infiltrate the Company and try to recruit select high-level tie-men and women—like me—from within its ranks. Grace was the commander of this division for five years before being elected to the council. Clair served with them for a six-month stint, too. Because the Reapers are more likely than any of the other branches of the Protectorate to be engaged by the enemy, they are the most highly trained and battle-tested unit in the army.

  I learn that the Protectorate has no less than twenty different campsites throughout America Division. Most of them are manned by only a handful of soldiers, who keep the area safe and secure in case the main army arrives. This force, of which I am now a part, numbers just under two thousand, and it moves at least once every six months to avoid enemy detection, a process they call “migration.”

  Spies and traitors to the cause are shot. Thieves are locked up until the next migration and then are expelled from the community.

  Ethan has been the commander in chief, the head general of the Protectorate, for as long as anyone can remember, although the ruling council has the right to relieve him of command at any time with a majority vote. Grace has been on the council for five years, McCann for two, and Clair for one.

  Though many of my fellow soldiers still call me “Blackie,” since the prison raid it has become more an ironic term of endearment than an insult. My close association with Ethan seems to have earned the trust of some of them, and dozens tell me their stories, tales as varied as the faces of those who tell them. People from all credit levels, all backgrounds, and all parts of America Division and the world have come to the banner of the Protectorate, some because of Company injustices, some because they didn’t fit into the Company system, and some simply because they were sure there had to be something more than working their lives away just to get the next new IC.

  The only thing I don’t learn is who or what “R” is, although from all the functions it accomplishes I determine that it must be a vast computer system. R adjusts the Company supply numbers when we steal food or medicine. R supplies the new identities and wireless security codes that mimic the cross implants when we go on missions within Company-controlled sectors. R provides maps and aerial views for the planning of missions. R alerts us of squad activity in our area. In short, R does almost everything, but the one time I ask Ethan about it, he blows off the question.

  “Don’t worry about R, May. Worry about the mission.”

  By the end of a week, I’ve learned almost everything about how the Protectorate operates. Though I repeatedly push the thought out of my mind, the fact is that I could return to Shaw and Blackwell now with enough information to wipe the Protectorate out forever. I’d be a hero within the Company. I’d get an immediate credit level raise, an even bigger and more luxurious apartment. And my future, as bright as it was before, would be blinding.

  But now I know for certain that there’s no way I would ever go back. As I get to know more and more of the Protectorate’s members, I’m amazed to find that most of these “vile unprofitables” are actually wonderful, intelligent people. I’m amazed by their industry, their bravery, their fidelity, their ability to live so cheerfully under such hardship, and all right under the nose of the squadmen who would like nothing more than to see them all dead. Then there’s Ethan. He’s unfailingly kind and patient, and he shares so much with me that sometimes I get the feeling he’s deliberately sharing Protectorate secrets in an effort to demonstrate his trust for me. His in
genuity, patience, and faith astound me. And as more and more of his Merger Day plan takes shape, I can hardly wait to see how it will come off.

  No, there’s no way I can leave and go back to the Company. Not now, not ever.

  ~~~

  “Deeper, deeper,” calls McCann. His son steps warily back, pushing further into the woods. Finally satisfied, McCann throws the ball. It strikes his son in the chest and knocks him on his butt. Michel sits there for a second, not knowing whether to cry or laugh. When at last he decides on the latter, we all join in, me, McCann, and Ethan. Little Michel stands, picks up the ball and hurls it back to his father. It falls ten yards short.

  This is only two days before the Merger Day operation. Preparations for the mission have filled almost my every waking hour, but all week, while eating, sleeping, and working out, my mind has unfailingly wandered back to Clair. Even now, playing football on this perfect, sunny day, I can’t help thinking of her. About her face, her skin. About the strange, almost familiar way she’d brush her hair out of her eyes. According to Ethan, she’ll likely be well enough to participate in the upcoming mission, but so far she hasn’t left the infirmary. And I haven’t gone back to visit her again, either. I’m probably more afraid of seeing her than I am of going into combat.

  “May!” Ethan gets my attention just in time for me to catch the ball that was speeding for my head.

  McCann is still helping little Michel off the ground.

  “He’s not the sportsman his father is,” says McCann, shaking his head but smiling.

  I roll out a few yards and rocket the ball at Ethan, who expels a little oof when it drills him in the gut.

  “Now, May, she can throw!” McCann laughs. “Look at that arm, boy! That’s how I was telling you to do it!”

  The kid nods dutifully.

  “Oh, McCann,” I say, “lay off him.”

  Ethan throws to McCann, who catches the ball gracefully with one hand.

  This began as a scouting mission. Someone reported seeing footprints around here that looked like they belonged to a squad member, and Ethan decided to scope out the report. Turns out, the footprints were nothing. But we decided to play football, just in case.

  This grove stands on the edge of a small lake. A few old, rotting beach cabins sit lifeless on the shore. A few others have already collapsed to the pine needle–laden earth. Once, this must’ve been a wonderful place.

  I jump up and snatch a wildly errant pass from Michel.

  “Good throw,” I say, and pass to Ethan. As he catches the ball, a question occurs to me. “So, Mr. General, Sir, were you an athlete in your school days?”

  He glances at me and sidearms it to McCann. Right on the money.

  “Can’t you tell?” he asks.

  “Did you like school?”

  “I’ve always loved learning.”

  “Have you always hated the Company?”

  Michel bobbles a pass. He picks up the ball and dusts it off daintily before throwing it to me.

  “I always loved people,” says Ethan, “above any institution.”

  It suddenly occurs to me that, as much as he’s shared with me about the Protectorate, he’s told me next to nothing about himself.

  “Come on, Ethan,” I say, “do you always have to be so damned vague? Can’t you give me one concrete fact about yourself? I mean, anything! I don’t even know your favorite flavor of ice cream!”

  Ethan only gives me his usual, inscrutable smile.

  McCann laughs, juggling the ball from one hand to the other. “Give up now, May,” he jokes, and throws the ball to me.

  I catch it, then press on: “Seriously, Ethan. You expect us to follow you to hell and back, and we don’t even know the name of your high-school crush, or what kind of a job you did before you became a rebel, or what kind of music you like!”

  My throw hits Ethan in the chest. He catches it and passes to Michel.

  “I like all kinds of music.”

  “Tell me about your training,” I say. “How did you learn everything about weapons and tactics and fighting? What was it like, being trained by the Protectorate?”

  “The same as how I’m training you.”

  I grab Michel’s wobbling pass with my fingertips.

  “Don’t take it personally,” McCann tells me, “he doesn’t trust anybody. Not even me, and I’ve saved his life. Three times.”

  “Twice,” Ethan says, with a sidelong glance at McCann. Then, to me: “I prefer to remain mysterious.”

  “Mysterious my ass,” I say. “Go deep. Deep, General. Come on, El Capitan, go deep! What, you think I throw like a girl? Come on!”

  Ethan is backed up nearly to the lake and is still going. I cock back, take two hopping steps forward, and hurl the ball with all my might. It shoots into the sky in a great arc, passing miraculously through a mass of tree branches, and comes to rest—splash—ten feet past Ethan, in the lake.

  “You do have one hell of an arm,” Ethan says with his amused grin.

  “Come on, Michel!” yells McCann. “We’ll get the ball, come on!”

  The boy and his father race to the water.

  “Last one to the ball is a baboon’s ass!” says McCann. He kicks off his shoes, yanks off his shirt, drops his trousers, and yanks down his underwear. I gasp. Father and son, both naked, both laughing, splash into the water.

  “Oh, my God, McCann!” I say, walking up to join Ethan at the shore.

  Ethan looks at me, laughing. “He loves to do this.”

  “I don’t know why you America Division people are so worried about clothes,” McCann shouts to us. “In my home, this is how we would always swim. Who brings a bathing suit everywhere?”

  “What about pollution?” I ask, still laughing.

  “If the world is polluted, we are polluted. If the world dies, we die anyway. I don’t pretend to be separate from the world. If she is poisoned, I jump in and be poisoned with her.”

  Michel, giggling, splashes his father in the face. McCann splashes him back, then they both plunge deeper, chasing the drifting football.

  I’m still laughing so hard tears are in my eyes. It’s so beautiful, father and son playing together like that. If only I could bring myself to jump in there with them.

  “Catch!” yells Michel. He heaves the ball at us. It splats into shallow water at our feet, splashing Ethan and me.

  We both laugh. With one hand, I reach down and touch the gun on my hip, making sure it’s still dry, then fish the ball out of the water. I dry it off on my shirt as Ethan and I stand there together, watching McCann and Michel wrestle in the water.

  “By the way,” Ethan says, his eye catching mine, “Rocky Road.”

  —Chapter Ø18—

  On September 2, the day before the attack, we set off before dawn. There are twelve vehicles total, ten squad trucks crammed with ten soldiers each, and two more vehicles filled with supplies. Per Ethan’s plan, the vehicles depart in pairs, at half-hour intervals, with each pair taking a different route. If any trucks in our scattered convoy are stopped by the squads before reaching N-Hub 2, we are to attack the squadmen with everything we’ve got, then fall out heading south, so as to lead them away from the rest of our forces.

  Everyone I know well in the camp, except Ada and Michel, agreed to take part in the battle. As during the prison raid, I am once again assigned to McCann’s vehicle, which is a relief; the idea of riding with Grace or Clair is more daunting than the thought of battle. And Ethan, to my surprise, opted to drive one of the supply trucks, so he’s riding alone.

  Dawn finds the world in much the same state as it was before the sun rose. A leaden shroud of clouds hangs above the pollution-choked countryside, casting everything in a muted pallor. It seems like a depressing omen—until I realize that in ad
dition to screening out the sun, the clouds are obscuring the view of the Company sats, too.

  It reminds me of the history books in the Protectorate library detailing stories of the first American Revolution. Several times when the rebel army seemed on the verge of being destroyed by the superior British force, they were able to escape or gain the advantage because of drastic changes in the weather, a fact that General Washington attributed to “divine providence.” I hope we have some of that, too. We’re going to need it.

  We ride uncomfortably for hour after hour, our bodies pressed together, legs overlapping, hip against hip in the overcrowded SUVs. We’re dressed in squad member uniforms just as we were during the prison raid, only this time I’m wearing a uniform, too. Maybe it’s the material or the fact that we’re all crammed in together, but I feel like I can’t stop sweating. Ethan has warned us that once we enter combat, we might not get the chance to sleep for days, so those who are able to get comfortable enough are dozing now. The rest sit in a tense silence, watching the faded beauty of America Division slide by us: abandoned farms, empty towns, pollution-stunted trees, fields full of dead grass surrounding ponds of acid rain.

  As midday approaches, the flatlands of the land formerly known as Ohio give way to hills. Remembering the maps Ethan showed me during the planning phase of the mission, I surmise that we must have been assigned the northern route, which passes through old Upstate New York rather than old Pennsylvania. Here, the pollution is slightly less severe, and the natural beauty of the countryside fills me with an awe that borders on the spiritual. For the first time since leaving the Company, I utter a silent prayer.

  Dear God, thank you for this day. I ask that you give me the courage to serve bravely. Please, be merciful to our soldiers tomorrow. Help us to find success. And if I should die in the battle tomorrow, try to forgive me for . . . for everything. Amen.

  The prayer seems oddly incomplete, and after a moment I realize what it’s missing. There’s no mention of gaining more credit or getting a promotion. No begging for a bigger apartment or a better car. This new simplicity of my desires feels good. And I realize that this might be the first time I ever prayed because I wanted to, rather than because Jimmy Shaw and the Company expected it. And the funny thing is, the minute I open my eyes, a small ray of sunlight pierces the clouds and bathes the road ahead of us in a golden glow, a gesture that almost seems to say, I’m here, and I hear you.