parched
GEORGIA CLARK
Holiday House / New York
Copyright © 2014 by Georgia Clark
All Rights Reserved
HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
www.holidayhouse.com
ISBN 978-0-8234-3157-1 (ebook)w
ISBN 978-0-8234-3158-8 (ebook)r
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Clark, Georgia.
Parched / Georgia Clark. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: Feeling guilty after her mother’s accidental death, sixteen-year-old Tessendra Rockwood leaves the abundance of Eden to fight for survival in the drought-devastated Badlands, but when she joins the rebel group, Kudzu, to fight the tyranny of Eden’s government, she is in for some big surprises.
ISBN 978-0-8234-2949-3 (hardcover)
[1. Science fiction. 2. Droughts—Fiction. 3. Survival—Fiction. 4. Revolutionaries—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G5449Par 2014
[Fic]—dc23
2013022884
For Mum and Dad, for always being my biggest fans
Acknowledgements
I am extraordinarily grateful for my lovely, enthusiastic agent Chelsea Lindman from Greenburger Associates, who has been excited about “the robot book” from day one. I’m indebted to Sylvie Frank and her obviously excellent taste for ushering Parched into Holiday House in the first place. Huge thanks to everyone at Holiday House, especially Sally Morgridge; my wonderful editor, Julie Amper, for guiding me through the process with such expertise (I just have a few more changes—is that okay?).
Special thanks to Pascuala Ortuzar, whose initial passion for this story inspired me to keep going and whose scientific/medical knowledge is second to none! Thanks to Ora Colb and all the students in my Gotham Writers’ Workshop courses who offered feedback, especially my teacher, Michelle Knudsen, whose insights were invaluable. I also tip-tapped away at the incredible Martha’s Vineyard Writers Residency—twice!—thanks to the kindness of Justen Ahren. Everyone I met there; you are all fantastico!
Danke bolshoi to John “I speak a thousand languages” Tillet and Nat Fong for helping create Malspeak; what a fun, nerdy treat.
Thanks to every reader I strong-armed into looking at a draft, particularly Will Hines for excellent naming suggestions, Lori Goldstein, Ryan Williams (you can have ponytails without ponies!), Danielle DiPaolo, and Jen McManus. Ally Collier saves my life on a daily basis; never, ever leave New York! And what would I do without Nora “Nozzy Pants” Tennessen or Dan “Hello ladies” Fox? High-fives to Book Club and the Amalfi Crew while I’m at it.
Cheers to my little team at Showtime (best day job in the world!), especially Adam Waring, for genuine interest and support in my other life as an author. Also a shout-out to the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater in New York; I wrote this book while doing a ton of improv with my teams Dreamboat, Kinsey and Cash Fur Guns. Everyone at UCB is great. That is all.
Huzzah to the passionate, supportive community of readers at Goodreads, in the blogosphere and working at independent bookstores and libraries; you’re the reason I’m here!
Finally, thanks to the Clark clan. My brother William, for being a lovable nutbag. My smart and generous Dad, for never raising an eyebrow at my antics and cheering me on every step of the way. And my loving, kind, pioneering Mum, for too many things to list here. Reading this book to you over Skype was always the highlight of my week, and not just because I love the sound of my own voice. It was because you thought it was flawless. Love you guys.
part 1
chapter 1
My eyes snap open with familiar panic. Bang. Awake.
There used to be a time when waking up was a gentle seesaw in and out of dreams, safe in a cocoon of warm blankets. Back then, the word sleep perfectly matched what I was emerging from: a long, drawn-out, sultry affair: sleeeeep. These days, I jerk awake with all the subtlety of unexpected vomit. This is because I live in the Badlands. And more specifically, because someone is pinching my big toe.
Heart leaping, I fumble for Mack. My bone-handled hunting knife is still under my pillow, never more than an arm’s length away. Before I can even bring the room into focus, I’m shoving Mack out in front of me, and in the direction of . . . Mileka. My landlord’s ancient skinny mother, crouching at my feet. My shoulders slump in relief as she opens her toothless mouth and laughs at me.
“Yes, funny,” I mutter, yanking my foot out from her thumb and forefinger. “Glad to see my abject terror is a source of such hilarity for you.”
My room—well, really more of a hole in the wall—is in its usual state of bomb-went-off disarray, managing to look messy despite my meager possessions. I drag myself up from the lumpy bedroll and pull on a pair of loose black pants that fall mid-calf. Like almost everyone in the Badlands, I sleep in my underwear. Too damn hot not to.
Mileka cocks her head to one side. I’m speaking English. She doesn’t. Out here we speak Malspeak, a mangle of English and old languages like Spanish, Mandarin, and Russian. Dialects from a time when the land was defined by many borders. Now there’s only one that matters. And I am on the wrong side of it. “Ni me pugat.” I tell Mileka she scared me.
“Zhukov,” Mileka replies, grinning her strange, toothless smile at me. “Quiere the fangzu.”
My heart manages to sink and shoot into my mouth at the same time. Mileka’s son, Zhukov, is my current landlord and boss, and he wants his rent. The five dollars I owe him for the pleasure of staying in this flea-bitten hovel of a room for another week, I don’t have. Again.
“Donde nar Zhukov?” My attempt at sounding unconcerned when inquiring as to his whereabouts fails.
Mileka shrugs, ducking her head to retreat to the low doorway. Sharp eyes watch me as I slip my arms into my sun robe and try to tame my sleep-crazed hair. I’d been routinely shaving an undercut since I’d gotten out here to keep it off my neck. I scrape what’s left into a long black ponytail. This includes three thin plaits threaded with speckled feathers that snake behind my left ear. A local custom that helps me blend in.
A bellow from below answers my question. “Donde nar ella?”
Mileka and I widen our eyes at the same time, so quickly it’d be funny if I weren’t in a stack of trouble. Finding a new place to sleep would be a major hassle. Plus, I like Mileka. Maybe one of these days I’ll even tell her my real name.
“Lillith’s nyet là!” Mileka screeches, covering for me.
“Mentirosa!” Zhukov roars back, not believing her. The stairs wheeze and creak under his weight.
Mileka presses a worn silver key into my palm, voice low and urgent: “Zhuan ban ba al bar.” She’s offering me her shift at the water bar. If Mileka pretends to leave for work as usual, Zhukov won’t look for me there.
I hook the worn straps of my backpack over my shoulders and breathe a quick thanks, “Danke bolshoi.” I find a hard chili candy in my pocket—Mileka’s favorite—and toss it over. She catches it neatly and rewards me with another gummy grin, waving her hands at me to go, now.
As Mileka disappears to face her beast of a son, I push open the dirty glass window. A whoosh of dry heat hits me in the face, momentarily sucking the air from my lungs and burning my eyeballs. I blink fast a few times, squinting in the glare. Then, after hooking one leg over the open window, I shimmy expertly along the narrow stone ledge and start climbing down the bone-dry drainpipe. My boots kick up tiny puffs of red dust as I land squarely on my feet.
The narrow street shimmers unevenly in the relentless heat, empty but for some barefoot kids playing stones. Over a hundred degrees and it’s still early morning. After only a few steps, I have to pull up my sun robe’s hood to stop my hair from feeling lik
e it’s melting.
Welcome to Kep Sai’an. Population: who the hell knows.
Zhukov’s water bar is only a few blocks away, and by blocks, I mean a few twisting back streets of rundown shacks and gutted buildings housing dozens of families. Some of the shacks are alive with noisy chatter, crying babies, even the occasional waft of cooking food. But many are quiet, no signs of life at all. Some have been quiet for weeks.
It was kind of Mileka to offer me her shift. If I’m lucky, I’ll scrounge my rent together in tips. But it’s unlikely. What little money the locals have is not being spent on the guarded girl who serves them the crappy aqua ferro—iron water—that dribbles from Zhukov’s taps. It’s being spent on the aqua ferro itself.
But before I start serving out said water, it’s time for breakfast. Breakfast used to mean eggs and coffee and creamy yogurt swirled with fat berries, all fresh and organic and harvested in the Farms. Now it means pourriture.
I suppress the urge to gag.
The compact little stall I’ve been eating at in Kep Sai’an is sandwiched tightly between two buildings whose tall walls provide coveted shade. This one tends to get my business because it’s slightly less horrible than the hundreds of others littered around town.
I find a seat between a silent old man with a face like a gnome and a couple of women wearing colorful patchwork dresses and conical straw hats. They all ignore me.
I nod at the pourriture mama and hold up one finger. She ladles a spoonful of gelatinous gray porridge into a wide plastic bowl and drops it in front of me. A little slops over the edge, and my stomach turns in disgust. Lifting the plastic spoon—reused, no less—I let the cheap millet stew drop in globs back into the bowl. It’s as slimy as snot and the color of snails.
Eat it, I command myself. Eat it! It may not taste good, but it will fill me up for the day. I swallow mouthful after mouthful. Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.
The women next to me are gossiping intensely in Mal. “Un mes,” one woman insists.
The other disagrees, shaking her head vigorously. “Un semana.”
I can guess what they’re talking about. Water. And how quickly it’s going to run out.
The old man next to me rises like a ghost. “Danke.” His thanks to the pourriture mama sounds painfully hoarse.
After I finish, I leave a couple of copper coins on the table and head toward the bar. I’m almost looking forward to a quiet morning; maybe I can crash out for a nap if there are no customers. I’m stretched thin with exhaustion, and not just from the heat. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since, well, since my life fell apart and I ended up stuck out here. But as I round the last corner, I see that I won’t be alone at Zhukov’s water bar.
Dozens of local kids, their dark eyes wild with dehydration, are gathered silently around the entrance. There are more every day, ever since they lost their jobs in the Manufacturing Zone. Their coat-hanger bodies hunch on the unpaved street. Their limbs look as gaunt as the dead trees that shoot up from the hard, red earth.
Even after a year of seeing kids like this, I still feel a flush of something raw and sad. But I can’t help them. There are too many. I’ll just have to deal with dozens of pleading eyes staring me down. Or maybe this time they won’t just be staring. I’ve heard rumors that water bars are being held up for even the tiniest amount of aqua ferro. Maybe today these kids will work it out that together, they could overpower me.
Another bad day in the Badlands. Is there any other kind?
I draw in a deep breath of dry, searing air and remind myself: this is the way it is. I move confidently through the crowd. Thankfully, they scatter to make way.
The metal shutter rises with a screech, spilling light into the dim, dusty bar. A long wooden counter runs along one wall, facing a few mismatched tables and chairs that sit unevenly on a packed dirt floor.
I toss my sun robe and backpack under the bar, then begin twirling Mack through my fingers. Casually enough so it won’t be mistaken as an invitation to fight, but fast enough so the kids outside can see I know how to use it. I traded my scratch for it the first week I was here. Technology won’t protect you from being attacked for fresh water. A badass blade will. Back in Eden where I grew up, the closest thing to knifework I’d experienced was cutting up a loaf of warm bread. Last night, I’d gutted a wild prairie chicken after scaling a rock face to find its nest and slit its throat.
What a difference a year makes.
The knife handle glides through my fingers, under and over in a fast figure eight. It’s a neat trick, and easier to learn than you might think. Easy, that is, if you have a lot of time on your hands and nothing to distract you.
A shadowed figure appears in the doorway, blocking the sun. I whip the handle into my palm.
The figure steps inside.
A girl.
My age—sixteen—maybe a pinch older. I relax my grip. She doesn’t look like a threat. Her sharp, almond-shaped eyes move around the dingy bar with the precision of a tracking beam. On seeing me, she double-takes, eyes pulsing in a split second of what looks like recognition.
Apprehension shoots up my spine. My fingers tighten around Mack’s hilt.
Without breaking eye contact, the girl slides onto a stool at the end of the bar, loosening her copper-colored sun robe. Her look is typical Badlands: a loose-fitting, hand-sewn dress constructed from mismatched scraps of material and leather boots as brawny as a bull. A few stripy feathers are woven into a handful of tiny plaits. But there’s no hiding the sheen of her thick, black bangs or the plump swell of her cheeks and arms. Her sun robe’s not nearly as stained as mine.
“Poká, coméstá?” She greets me eagerly in Malspeak, but it lacks the confidence of a local.
“Poká,” I murmur back.
“Un acqua, qing beaucoup?”
“Shì.” I drive Mack’s blade into the soft wood of the bar where the kids can see it while I tend to the girl. The aqua ferro that trickles from the faucet runs opaque yellow, dribbling like syrup. It smells like wet dog.
“No.” There’s a light, if frustrated, laugh in the girl’s voice. “Acqua azul.” Lake water. Eden water.
“A dollar,” I challenge. “And you owe me ten cents for the ferro.”
She slides a red ten-dollar note across the bar. “Keep the copper.”
I grab it before the kids catch sight of it: ten dollars is a week’s wages around here. She’s a tourist, then. Slumming it in Kep Sai’an to regale wide-eyed friends back in Eden with a daring anecdote or two. Time to show her some classic Kep Sai’an service.
“Hey! Robowrong!” The substitute that’d been standing motionless at the far end of the bar jerks its head up. Flat, mechanical eyes aim themselves in the direction of my voice. “City girl wants a city water.”
The large, ungainly machine rolls bumpily toward us. It’s a head shorter than me and stout, like a dirty bronze troll. I cross my arms, a satisfied smirk creeping across my mouth. Being the world’s biggest cheapskate, Zhukov has the world’s shoddiest substitute.
Eden is full of sophisticated, beautifully designed substitutes, but in this backwater part of the world, we have the oldest, clunkiest subs around. It would take this hopeless hunk of metal five minutes to hand the girl a bottle of water. She knows it, but if she’s annoyed, she doesn’t show it.
“I haven’t seen that model of substitute in a while—a Builder, right?” She gives me a quick, deliberate smile. “Did you make the modifications so it could work in here? You strike me as someone who might know her way around a substitute.” Her eyes are all questions that she already has the answers to.
She knows who I am.
Time to change tack. I give her a big, dumb smile, and force a chuckle. “You’ve certainly got me pinned wrong. I don’t know the first thing about all that stuff.” I cock my head, the too-friendly smile still slapped on my face. “You’re not from around here, right? You know, there’s a pretty decent pourr
iture stall nearby. I eat there all the time and have never gotten sick—”
“I’m not here for travel tips,” she interrupts. “My name’s Ling Sun-Yi.” She sticks her hand out. I don’t shake it. “And you are?”
“Lillith.” My fingers find the sharp tip of the small gold sword dangling from my necklace and press into it, hard. A nervous gesture I can’t shake.
Her dark eyes practically swallow me whole. “Wasn’t Lillith the woman who was cast out of Eden? According to myth?”
My skin shivers but I keep my eyes and voice hard. “Ping, was it?“
“Ling,” she corrects.
“Here’s a travel tip for you, Ping.” I frame my words like a question, but they sound like a statement. “Why don’t you get out of here before I tell those kids to roll you for all that spare cash you have.”
The girl’s eyes drill into me, unblinking. “Are you sure your name isn’t Tess Rockwood?”
Despite the heat, I freeze.
Ling’s fist pops the bar in triumph. “It is you! You’re hard to find, Tess. I’ve been looking for you for a month!” Her words are lit with excitement. “Got a tip-off at a trading market an hour north. They remembered the tattoo. Not many people around here have electronic ones.”
My fingers move automatically to my tronic, the glowing scrawl of text implanted on the underside of my left arm, from the crook of my elbow to the bottom of my palm. Four words: No feeling is final. I’d never guessed it could be used to track me down. “I know my rights,” I say. “It isn’t against Trust law for Edenites to be in the Badlands.”
“Tess—“
“Leave.” My fingers hover over Mack’s hilt. “Or I’ll be forced to get persuasive.”
“It’s taken me a month to find you,” Ling says, incredulous. “I’m not leaving.”
“You can’t make me come back with you,” I all but yell. “I don’t care what you do for the Trust!”
“I don’t work for the Trust!” She takes a deep breath, eyes burning bright. “I’m part of a group called Kudzu.”
Parched Page 1