The Rise of Io

by Wesley Chu

  “Please.” The words came out of his mouth all mushed together. “This is all a misunderstanding, an accident.”

  “I don’t believe so. Most of the emirates have strictly enforced Quasing detection. Penetra scanners dot every airport and road in and out of Abu Dhabi, and every royal palace. However, you made sure to have all yours disabled before your recent trip to Belgium.” She leaned in and cupped his chin with her hand. “Is being a vessel everything you hoped it would be?”

  You are wasting time. Finish this.

  “Yes, Tabs.”

  “You can’t kill me,” the sheik whined. “My family will not allow it. You will be giftwrapping all of the emirates to the Prophus if my blood is on your hands.”

  Shura smiled. “I don’t think so. You are far down the line of succession, low enough that you have little to lose and much to gain. Is that why you risked having a Quasing? Were you hoping to forge an alliance that raised your standing? Did the Prophus promise you the crown one day?”

  Realization came to Ahmed, and the terror that was painted on his face melted away. He actually chuckled. “Is that what you think, you bitch? No, I don’t want the crown. Being the king is a burden. I did it because it was the right thing to do, because I want my nephews and nieces to have a future. I want this planet to survive. Because…”

  “Bitch? That’s misogynist.” Shura snapped his neck.

  About time. I thought he would never shut up.

  Shura leaned into the fireplace and grabbed a piece of burning wood. She walked over to the bottle of expensive vodka, flicked the top off with one hand, and took a large swig. She came back to Ahmed’s body just as a cloud filled with hundreds of sparkling lights rose from the corpse.

  Shura held the burning cord in front of her and spit the alcohol out of her mouth, spewing a jet of flames. Khat tried to avoid the fire, but the slow-moving Quasing was quickly engulfed. Shura took another swig and repeated the process several more times, until the last of the lights that was once a Holy One was gone.

  Until the Eternal Sea.

  “Until the Eternal Sea,” she murmured. “Forty-seven and counting.”

  Indeed.

  Shura could still hear the revelry downstairs and the house-shaking rumbles of the electronic music. She looked at the three dead bodies in the room and shook her head. She had predicted more of a challenge. It was far too easy to kill royals. Not like the old days.

  Do not be too proud of this accomplishment. Back in the old days, they didn’t have succession lists this long. Seems everyone is in line for a crown these days. However, an alliance between the Prophus and the emirates would have been problematic. Your standing has been raised.

  Shura listened at the front door, and then walked out onto the balcony. She was five stories up with a hundred and fifty meter courtyard to the outer perimeter where a four meter wall with spikes on top awaited her. She scanned the grounds below and saw at least a dozen guards with dogs on patrol.

  She reached down to the hem of her dress and began to unravel it. Within seconds, she had enough of the specialized rope to tie onto the balcony railing and rappel down.

  Wait for the man with that dog to turn the corner. There will be a group of two guards following in forty-five second intervals.

  Shura mapped out her escape and waited, watching as the man and the canine disappeared around the corner. She would much rather face two armed guards than a dog. She loved animals.

  Now.

  Shura leaped over the side and swung down, letting the rope slip loosely in her hands as she descended. Only when she neared the ground did she tighten her gloved hands around the rope to slow her fall. She landed in mid-step and sprinted barefoot to the wall.

  Two man patrol on your left.

  Instead of trying to avoid the men crossing her path, Shura charged them. No need to be target practice, after all. She stayed low and out of their line of sight, keeping a row of shrubs between her and them as she closed the distance. Once she was nearly within melee range, she leaped on top of one before he realized what hit him. A downward strike knocked the submachine gun out of his hands, and then she grabbed the barrel and pulled at an angle. The strap around his shoulder twisted and tightened against his neck and armpit, trapping his head and shoulder together. Shura held on to the carbine and lurched the man off his feet as she swung around and went low at the second guard. Her right heel swung in a wide arc and cracked the side of his knee, and, before his body hit the ground, a downward chop collapsed his trachea. He gurgled hoarsely for a few seconds before going limp.

  Shura turned to the first guard, still pawing at the strap digging into his flesh. She tilted her head and studied his purple face, her hands turning the rifle in a slow circle, squeezing his upper body just a little more with each twist.

  Stop playing around and finish him.

  Shura placed her bare feet on the side of his neck and jerked the rifle upward.

  Another patrol coming forty meters off. Avoid this one.

  She took off again, dashing from cover to cover. Shura reached the stone wall and crept along its edge toward the gatehouse. She stayed in the shadows and counted. One guard house, two men, one canine, and two alternating cameras on each side. A half-moon of spikes on the gate decorated the four meter high fence.

  This one was going to be tricky. She could take the guard standing outside easily enough, but would be hard pressed to kill the one in the guard house before he pulled the alarm. With two cameras, each panning at different intervals, staying out of sight would be difficult as well. There was also the matter of the dog.

  Take out the one in the guard house first. Shoot the one on the road. Open the gates. It is the most direct way.

  “No, Tabs. That still leaves the dog and puts me in direct view of at least one camera.”

  Just kill the dog and shoot out the cameras. Be quick about it. It will catch your scent soon.

  Shura bristled. That German Shepherd was a beautiful animal. She inched forward, her eyes tracking the near camera at the top corner of the gate. The guard with the dog had just turned and was pacing away. The near camera panned to the left, and began to return on its arc.

  Shura took off, angling away from the wall and then veering back toward the gate. Her bare feet touched the hard iron bar, and she swung her body upward. She ran up the gate with her feet and reached to palm the camera. With a simultaneous push and pull of her body against different parts of the gate, she swung just over the iron spikes and was off, sprinting into the black night before any of those souls were any the wiser.

  Shura had reached the end of the street and turned the corner before the sounds of the dog barking broke the otherwise quiet night.

  Five

  A Day in the Life

  Ella woke up late the next morning, feeling drained, exhausted, and with a dull pain throbbing all over her body. She glanced up at the container ceiling. Light poked through the small holes, just enough for her to see her bedroom.

  She vaguely recalled having the weirdest dream. She remembered the con job with the briefcases and hiding in the trash heap, and then there was that woman and the sparkling lights. Was that real? She remembered the fight, uncharacteristically jumping out and stabbing one of the men.

  “What got into you, girl?” she muttered.

  How many people did she stab yesterday, anyway? It felt like a lot, at least more than average. More than enough to fill her stabbing quota for the entire month.

  After that, things got fuzzy and a little weird. She remembered the strange pretty lights, the puking and the passing out. Wait, did she actually remember passing out? Was that even possible? No, that man, that coward, she didn’t know his name, had abducted her and taken her home and removed her clothes. Was that all a dream? Her hand wandered down her side and she felt the bandages. It seemed not.

  Grumbling, Ella yawned and forced herself to get up. Staying in bed wasn’t an option. In her life, staying in bed meant not making any sc
ratch and not eating, and there was always some punk who wanted to take her place. No, Crate Town was hers, and hers to lose. A samrãjñī – a queen – must present herself to her subjects every day, lest any of them develop any funny ideas about trying to squeeze in on her turf.

  She poured a bowl of water over her head, wiped her face with a wet rag, and dumped the dirty water down a small drainage pipe that ran down the side of the container cluster. She was about to get dressed when she saw her old clothes in the hamper. She could smell last night all the way from here. Ella sniffed her shoulder. No amount of hand and face washing was going to get rid of this stench. It was time to visit Wiry Madras. She sighed and grabbed a fresh towel, some clean clothes, and her dirty laundry.

  Ella checked herself in the mirror on the way out. She bared her teeth and curled her hands into claws. “Rawr.” She had survived to prowl another day.

  She looked like a stray cat that someone had dunked into the river. Black Cat was her nickname among some of the older residents in Crate Town. When she had first heard it, she had thought it was because she was sleek and brought bad luck upon her foes. She found out much later on that they called her that because she was small, sneaky and pissed on everyone.

  Today, something was a little different, a little off; she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Ella looked and felt the same, but she had always been pretty in tune with her body. A person had to be to survive on the streets from an early age. She twirled in front of the mirror once more, checking her back for anything out of the ordinary, and then, resigned to the fact she’d never look like those women she saw in magazines, left her container home.

  Ella double-checked the locks on her front door and tossed Burglar Alarm a snack on her way down. Crate Town at noon was a kaleidoscope of color that splashed the otherwise dreary and washed-out landscape. The crowds were thick with men, women, and children, many wearing brightly patterned sari and panche, painted the backdrop of rust and dirt and steel, adding much needed life. Lines of clothing – in yellows and pinks and purples – hung in the air on wires over the streets in between the riot of brown, red and green container cluster buildings. Blue and orange canvases draped over makeshift balconies and alleyways, providing a little shade against the suffocating heat.

  Ella joined the crowds as the people went about their day. There was a rhythm to the slum, a heartbeat as the sharp sounds of dogs barking, horns blaring, and people shouting filled the air. Trucks honked as they tried to bully their way against the river of people, hauling lumber, aluminum and scraps.

  Men pushed by her, sacks strapped to their backs or balanced on their heads. Women chattered while washing clothes, herding little ones, cooking delicious aromatic food that almost covered the constant acrid smell of rust, unwashed bodies and concealed sewage. Groups of the young and the old picked through mounds of refuse, looking for anything of value to sell, recycle, or repurpose. Crate Town was alive.

  The first thing Ella did was head to the center of the slum, to the bath house. Wiry Madras ran this particular establishment, and it was easily the most expensive public bath house in all of Crate Town. That was fine by Ella. If there was one thing she allowed herself to splurge on, it was baths and laundry.

  Wiry Madras, an ex-madam from Little Dhavari in the east, did a lot of good for the community here by employing and protecting many of the orphaned girls who otherwise would be on the streets. Ella had spent some time as one of those girls when she had first made Crate Town home, so she now considered the few extra rupees for washing services a way of paying it forward as well as repaying Wiry Madras.

  Wiry Madras took her load of laundry and sniffed it. Her wrinkled face became even more prune-like. “Stupid girl playing in shit again. It’ll cost you double, you filthy cat.”

  Ella stuck her tongue out and paid the premium. It didn’t mean Ella liked the old woman. She had been on the receiving end of Wiry Madras’s broom far too many times for the two of them to ever be on friendly terms.

  The bath was exquisite, if only because of the state she was in when she first arrived. Otherwise, the water was murky and lukewarm, and the tub dirty. At least she had her own bath – Wiry Madras had been forced to give her a private tub when the other women complained about her. In the end, she came out clean and feeling refreshed, and finally ready to start her day, or what was left of it. Half the day had gone by the time she was dried and dressed.

  The first thing she did was head back to the scene of the crime. Even though she had made away with two metal briefcases worth of goods, it wasn’t a one-person operation. It took a small army of people – affiliates, as she liked to call them – to have pulled that caper off.

  Tawny the Jerk, the lookout, saw her approach and broke into a grin. Ella reared back when he stuck his outstretched hand too close to her body. “What did I say about touching me, Tawny? I know what you do with those fingers.” Ella tossed him a carton of cigarettes.

  The corner beggar caught the pack deftly and his eyes skimmed the small opening on the top of the paper package. “Hey, there’s only fifteen here. You’re short.”

  Ella shook her head. “No way. That’s the penalty for the watch you missed last week. Damn Omar nearly got the jump on me.”

  “It was right when I told you. Not my fault he changed his mind last minute.”

  “There’s no right when it’s wrong. Get it straight or next time or I take back half.”

  Tawny made a rude gesture as she walked away. Ella skirted the narrow and crooked path down the wide street, her eyes alert for speeding motorists, beggars reaching for alms, little street rats running underfoot, or anyone else for that matter. Every single one of them was probably trying to rob, kill or con her, especially the damn kids. That was the thing with the kids. No sense of respect for the hierarchy, but that was the way of the streets. It wasn’t that long since Ella had been one of them.

  She gave several square meters of netting to Ghanash, the corner fruit vendor, for being her lead lookout. Three thousand rupees to Jango and his cart for the little diversion yesterday. Twenty thousand to Farg to give to Congee the barkeep for messing up his bar. Five thousand to Olle for the initial lead. The list went on until Ella had covered all of the players involved in her little heist.

  On top of that, she gave an old coloring book to Hansy the nurse for the stitch-up last month. A sack of dried meats to Ando the leatherworker for her shank’s new sheath. A needle and a ball of red yarn to Oldie Meen just because Ella liked the elderly lady. A handful of candies to the Mud Specks kids’ gang, more for retainer and a future favor, but also a friendly gesture to not mess with her. If Big Mud decided to make her life miserable, it wouldn’t take much for it to happen.

  After finishing her rounds, Ella scanned the sky to see how much of the day she had left. For most, the day ended when the sun set. Things always got a little dicey once darkness fell in Crate Town.

  She continued her way back to Fab’s Art Gallery, making sure to put in some face-time among the people, greeting all the players and introducing herself to the newcomers who might need her services one day, or who might try to compete. Keeping an ear close to the ground was always the best way to stay on top of the goings-on here in the slum.

  Her words eased stern scowls. Ella had put nine good years’ worth of sweat and equity into this slum, and she had brought in enough stock to earn the people’s respect. Now she was known, and that made her someone, which in this dangerous place meant everything.

  The current worried gossip was a new rat gang that had popped up over the weekend. They were kids, ages ranging from seven to sixteen. They were dangerous because they were brutal, undisciplined, and didn’t respect the way things ran in Crate Town. What they lacked in size, they made up for by swarming their victims like, well, rats. Another piece of interesting news was that the government had once again expanded the area of the construction site near the docks, already doubling their original plan and cutting into large chunks of the Du
mas neighborhood in the west. There was a lot of grumbling from many residences and businesses about being forced to sell their properties to accommodate the construction of some secret government project.

  Ella also got word that those Pakistani gangsters were looking for her. They had even put a reward out, dead or alive: one hundred Euros. She had preened a little when she heard that. Not bad. She was moving up in life, and in a foreign currency to boot. She didn’t worry too much about the bounty. Crate Town was a big place with thousands of people. The chances of them finding her were slim..

  The hot political topic on the streets was that Minister Kapoor, the newly appointed Deputy Minister of Gujurat, had taken an interest in Surat and had moved his office there from Gandhinagar, the capital. In his speech to the Surat Chamber of Commerce, he was quoted as saying that the battered city, still devastated from the war, was the key to revitalizing the entire region.

  The young up-and-comer made a point of singling out cleaning up Crate Town and cited the construction on the docks as an example of India’s need to rebuild and ally with their post-war neighbors. It was the same politician spiel Ella had heard hundreds of times before. Usually nothing came of it, and it rarely affected the dregs of society like her. However, people were saying this Kapoor was different, and that he might be a future prime minister of India.

  Ella saw a picture of him. He was good looking, the son of a Bollywood star, and it seemed he had an unusual amount of political backing from several powerful places. In any case, his world was so far away from hers it might as well have been the moon.

  Ella crossed the muddy path and reached the art gallery. She waved at Little Fab working behind the counter and nodded at Big Fab hiding behind the beaded curtains.

  Little Fab waved back. “You leading to trouble today?”

  Ella shrugged. “Is there any other day here in Crate Town?”

  She leaned against the counter and chatted with the third and youngest Fab who was easily twice her age. Fab had named both of his sons after himself. He called himself Big Fab even though he was now a spindly stooped old man while Little Fab was the size of a cart. The older son just went by Fab. The Fab family was as much a staple in Crate Town as the mud, the stench, and the constant banging of the metal walls. More importantly, they were the most reliable fence for stolen goods.