by Leahy, R. J.
I open my eyes to total blackness, but slowly my sight adjusts. My ears are ringing and I have a sharp pain in my back. The tunnel is collapsed behind us. There’s some light filtering in ahead. Not the red glow of fire, but sunlight. We must be near the southern entrance. I turn to see Abby sitting next to me, covered in a fine layer of dust. Yellow powder still cakes her face.
She smiles as I stand, but her hands are shaking. Her eyes are dilated and her lips full and open, almost panting. She reaches out to touch my leg, then pulls back, unsure and confused. Her hands come to rest between her legs and I can see the conflict raging within her. The primal urges Pan inflames can be overwhelming, especially in high doses.
“Are you hurt?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
I beat the dust off me and kneel, gripping her arms. “Abby, you’re drugged. Do you understand?”
She nods, trembling in my grasp.
“Inhaling makes the effects more intense, but shorter lived. It should be out of your system in a few hours.”
“I feel strange. I don’t think… I don’t think I can walk.”
It can’t be more than midday. It’s probably safer to leave the tunnel after dark anyway. “All right. We’ll wait here.”
I sit across from her as she struggles against the drug. Her eyes briefly close, then open; her tongue flicks out to moisten parted lips; her breathing is deep and ragged. She’s staring at me, fighting to keep her hands from her body. Each touch, no matter how slight, elicits a small gasp. I sense the hunger in her, but I don’t take it personally. She doesn’t want me, she just wants release.
I lean back and close my eyes, thankful for the sleepiness that suddenly comes upon me. There’s nothing I can do for her. The drug will have to work its way out of her system and until it does, she’ll have to deal with this herself. The least I can do is give her some privacy.
When I awake, the first thing I notice is that the light in the tunnel has dimmed, but it isn’t completely dark. I can’t have slept for more than a few hours. Abby is lying on her right side, her left arm draped across her face, deep in sleep. Her shirt tails are pulled out, the top now held closed by a single button. Her left leg crosses over the right, her right hand lodged somewhere between the two.
I get up and move a few paces toward the tunnel exit, enough so that she’s behind me as I flick on the flashlight. I bang it loudly on the concrete floor before shining the beam down the tunnel. The noise rouses her.
“It must be near dusk,” I say. “Close to curfew. Hopefully we can get out of here without running into Counselors.” I keep up the chatter, pretending not to hear the sounds of shirttails being tucked in and a zipper being pulled up.
“Yes,” she says. “I mean, I think we should leave.”
I don’t look at her until she moves to my side. “You ok?”
She nods. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
There’s a still a slight tremor to her movements, but she looks like she’s back in control, just a little worn out. Understandable.
It’s just over fifty meters to the end of the tunnel. The opening above us isn’t sealed, which is unusual. We climb a rusted ladder and exit through the open manhole.
We come up on a street littered with debris and heavy with the burned charcoal scent of a recent fire. Smoke and ashes float in the wind as thick grey bands, forcing us to cover mouths with our sleeves. Ahead, a block of row houses has been reduced to smoldering pyres of embers.
Abby looks around in dismay. “Counselors?”
It’s possible. The Council’s been known to raze sections of the city that were particularly troublesome, but this looks too messy to be a Council operation. “More likely tribes from the Bonifrei. There’s been bad blood with the Chojo for decades.”
She shakes her head. “Is it ever going to end?”
“If you mean the ethnic hatreds, then probably not. If you mean the riots, then yes. All riots end. They burn themselves out. This one will too, but not before they’ve had a chance to vent their anger.”
“It’s so stupid. They should be uniting against the government, not killing each other.”
“You can’t direct hate, Abby. That’s what this is—pure, savage, hate. Kingston may have set it loose, but he can’t control it.” I know before I say it that it won’t do any good, but I say it anyway. “And killing him won’t stop it.”
She lowers her sleeve from her face. “He used me, then he set me up. He’s the reason Pen is dead.”
I could remind her that killing Kingston won’t bring Pen back. That his death by her hands won’t change anything, but that would be trite. Trite, but true. Anyway, revenge is never about changing things, it’s about making good on a debt, about tallying that which is owed, against accounts receivable. It’s a simple calculation whose sum always equals zero. You’d think a mathematician would know that.
I take her by the arm and lead her east.
“The hospital is south of here,” she says.
“We’re not going to the hospital. Kingston would have abandoned that place just as soon as we headed to Devon’s with the guns. He’s moved again and we need to find out where.”
“From who?”
“Jirou.”
She stops abruptly. “No. No, I can’t involve them anymore than I already have.”
“Involve them? Abby, look around you, the city is eating itself alive. Everyone is involved, whether they want to be or not.”
I guess that particular aspect of revolution escaped her. To her credit, she actually wavers. “Do you think they’re all right?”
“I have no idea, but Jirou is the only lead to Kingston we have. So, we either go see him, or you give this up.
It only takes her a moment to make up her mind. “All right then, let’s go.”
It’s six blocks to Jirou and Meki’s home. Rioters have passed through here as well, though the damage is less. The moonlight reflects large stains, probably blood, on a street strewn with broken glass, bricks and boards. Their home hasn’t been spared either. The glass in the picture window is broken, replaced by a thick blanket nailed to the clapboard. It ripples and snaps in the wind as we step onto the porch.
Abby knocks. Not surprisingly, there’s no answer. I’m just grateful we weren’t greeted by a shot through the door. After the last few days, I’m not so sure that wouldn’t have been my response. When no one comes to the door, she pulls an edge of the blanket aside and stage whispers her name several times. Finally, we hear the latch turn. The door opens just a crack, the security chain still in place, and a small face appears.
Meki’s expression is easy to read even in the moonlight. It’s obvious she never expected to see Abby again. She doesn’t open the door.
“Meki, may we come in?” Abby asks.
“Abby?”
“Yes.”
“They said you were dead.”
“I know. Meki…”
“People did this, because they think you’re dead.”
The unspoken accusation is biting and unfair, but Abby doesn’t protest. She lowers her eyes and says nothing.
I step into the light of the doorway. “It wasn’t Abby, Meki. It was Kingston.”
“Meki, Please,” Abby says. “We need to talk to Jirou.”
Meki glances behind her, hesitating, then finally nods. The door closes and I can hear the sounds of locks being pulled back.
We step into a dim room, illuminated only by the red coals of the stove. Jirou sits crouched in a corner, two children sleeping near him. All are wearing coats. The blanket in the window does little to keep out the cold.
I nod as I enter, but he doesn’t acknowledge me, or Abby. The friendly, trusting look is gone. He’s holding a large axe in his hand and regards me with a detached, somber expression. The side of his face is swollen. The blade is notched and stained with something dark.
The two women share a restrained hug. “I’m sorry,” Meki says. “It has been a long few days.”
Meki frowns. “Where is Pen?”
Abby opens her mouth to answer but nothing comes out. Her eyes well up and her lower lip trembles. The look of a child struck hard across the face.
I answer for her. “Pen is gone.”
“But how? When?”
Abby has her hand over her eyes, still fighting back the tears.
I shake my head. Now is neither the time nor the place to go into it. And it’s too soon. Too soon for Abby certainly, but as my thoughts turn to Pen, I realize it’s too soon for me as well.
Saving Pen was important to me in ways I still can’t comprehend. Maybe I thought that by saving her, I could save that part of me that had once been like her. As Pen trusted Abby, there was a time I would have trusted Cole with my life, followed him anywhere. When that trust died, Pen chose to die with it. I chose another way.
There isn’t time to dwell on it. “Meki, we need to find Kingston.”
She looks across the room to Jirou whose gaze is on the floor, almost catatonic. “Jirou,” she says softly.
The seconds tick by and I wonder if he heard her. Finally, he stirs, lifting his head to meet her eyes. He stands and takes a long look at the two sleeping children at his feet before walking over to us, axe still in hand.
“They need to find Kingston,” Meki says.
“He moved his headquarters the day you met with Devon.” His words come slowly in an emotionless monotone. “He and his people wait in a tunnel in the ninety-eighth precinct.”
“Wait for what?”
“To attack the armory there.”
The statement rouses Abby and she sighs, wiping her eyes on her shirtsleeve. “The armory? He’s lost his mind.”
That Kingston may be mad is entirely possible, but his plan isn’t as crazy as it sounds. In any normal time, a raid on an armory would be suicide. They house a garrison of men and the entry is heavily barricaded. But this isn’t a normal time.
“Why would he even try?” She asks. “I thought the guns were useless?”
“He’s found a way around the mechanisms,” I say.
“I thought you said there wasn’t one.”
“There isn’t, not in the weapons themselves. But if he gains entry to the armory, he’ll have access to the radio codes. If he can disable the transmitter, they won’t be able to shut the guns down. I suppose he figures that with every available Counselor on the street, the armory will be almost empty of personnel.”
“Is he right?” Abby asks.
“Maybe.”
“And if he gets the guns?” Meki asks. “Then what?”
Then Kingston will try and bring down the government. He’ll arm his people and anyone who’s loyal to him and attack the Ministry and Council headquarters. When that happens, every Counselor will be called back to defend the Garden District and the quarters will be free to tear each other apart without interference.
I shrug. “Then I suggest you do what the people of the old city did. Find a hole and hide in it.”
The room grows quiet.
Jirou looks up. “People from the Bonifrei quarter—your quarter—they came last night.”
He doesn’t even try to hide the hurt and disillusionment, but if he’s damning me for my place of birth, I don’t see it in his eyes. “I know.”
“So angry. So full of hate.” He glances around the room, to the broken window; his children lying huddled on the floor. “They will be back, won’t they?”
I wish my answer was different. “Probably.”
He nods, his expression unchanged.
“Jirou, do you know when Kingston plans to attack?”
But he’s become silent again. He wanders back to the stove and sits down between the children.
“We went to see Kingston after we heard you had been killed,” Meki says. “He was busy moving from the hospital and had little time for us, but I overheard Jace talking. He said that the seventh would soon be remembered as ‘freedom day.’”
Tomorrow is the seventh. I check my watch. It’s three hours till dawn. “They’ll attack in the early morning, when the riots are at their peak. If we’re going to catch Kingston, then we’ll have to get there before him.”
Abby takes Meki’s hand. “Is there any place else you can go? Anywhere safer?”
The small woman looks lost. “Where? What place is safe in the city?”
I take out my pistol and offer it to her.
She stares, but doesn’t take it. “It would do no good. There are too many. We cannot kill them all.”
The walk to the ninety-eighth takes almost two hours. As always, we keep to the side-streets and shadows, but there’s little need. Although the Chojo is quiet, that’s not true in every quarter and all eyes will be on those areas still rioting. To the east, a dull orange-red glow tints the night sky. The Heights are on fire.
The armory is situated on a wide street next to an empty lot. This is a commercial area and we cling to the buildings across the street as we approach. Even with the city in chaos, it will be monitored and closely watched. We stop a block away—no reason to risk detection getting any closer—and crouch at the corner of a furniture store, huddling against the wind.
From here, the armory looks unassailable: a squat, thick-walled building with narrow, recessed windows. The entire area is fenced in, with a manned gate and surrounded by heavy, concrete barricades. Unseen are the machine guns and mortars mounted on the roof and the cameras hidden in the shadows, recording every movement within fifty yards.
Abby shakes her head. “This is where Kingston wants to start his revolution? He really is crazy. A small army couldn’t get into that building.”
I pull up the collar of my jacket. “He obviously thinks he’s found a way.” The air is biting, but Abby doesn’t complain, even though I can see her lips are blue. “C’mon, let’s get out of this cold.”
I slip my tool kit from my pocket and walk around to the front door of the furniture store. It’s dangerous to be on the street this close to the armory, but we should be out of range of the cameras. I slide a pick into the lock.
“Won’t you set off an alarm?” she asks.
“We’ll have a few minutes.” The lock gives and the knob turns in my hand.
Merchandise crowds the floor space: chairs followed by tables followed by beds. We pass them all and head to the back, looking for the office. It isn’t hard to find. The streetlamps shining in through the large picture windows gives plenty of light.
The alarm is set into the wall of the office, near the desk, its red light blinking. I tap a series of six numbers on the keypad and the blinking stops, the color changing to a steady green.
“I’m impressed,” Abby says. “How did you know the code?”
“It’s a Council override number.”
She smiles. “Now I’m disillusioned.”
“Why?”
“That’s cheating. I thought you were a master thief.”
“Nope. Just garden-variety.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She rubs her arms as a shiver runs through her. “Thank you.”
I start to sit on one of the near beds but the look on her face stops me in mid squat. I forgot she still must have some Pan in her system. Besides, I wasn’t making a proposition; I’m just tired. I reverse course and stand, but now there’s an awkwardness, her eyes avoiding me and the bed.
“You’re sure you want to do this?”
Her head snaps up.
“Kingston.”
A deep blush colors her. “Oh.”
“Abby…”
“This is something I have to do, but there’s no reason for you to stay. You’ve done more than I could have asked. I can handle the rest myself. You should go back to Reed.”
“Should I?”
“Yes. Take your own advice: bury yourselves in one of those nests of yours and wait until things get better.”
“And what if they don’t?”
<
br /> “All riots end. You said so yourself.”
“I’m not talking about the riots.”
“What, then?”
So here it comes. Why am I telling you this? What possible difference can it make? None, but you should know anyway. Of all people, you should know. “The Westside is dying, it has been for years. It’s the reason for the shortages. The problem isn’t hoarding like Kingston claims, it’s that land—it won’t support crops anymore. No one is sure why—probably the same thing that’s killed off the rest of the world. All I know, is it was bad six years ago it’s only gotten worse. The land is almost dead.”
Her face reflects her rapidly changing emotion: confusion followed quickly by comprehension, then denial. “No, no you’re wrong. That’s not possible.”
“Yes it is. Abby, we’re running out of food.” We stare at each other in silence as I let it sink in.
“All right, so what’s being done about it?” she asks, finally.
“We need more land.”
“There isn’t any.” She’s angry. Probably she doesn’t even realize it herself, or understand why, if she does. But instinctively, she knows she doesn’t want to hear this.
“There’s the city itself. An area the size of two quarters, removed of people and razed to the ground, then plowed over, should be enough.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You know how many people we’re talking about?”
“Around twelve million.”
“And where do they expect to relocate twelve million people?”
“I didn’t say relocate. I said remove.”
It takes only a few seconds for the enormity of what I’ve said to sink in. She shakes her head. “No…”
“The wall isn’t for traffic control, Abby. When it’s time, they’ll seal off the Huenta and Aramaic quarters. Nothing in, nothing out. I don’t know when, but all these shortages means the time must be getting near.”
She’s shaking her head faster, a deep flush rising in her cheeks. Then suddenly she cries out and swings, catching me in the nose with her fist. Both arms flailing, she hits me again and again; in the chest, in the face. I do nothing to stop her.