SLAM

by Tash McAdam

  Abial looks over at her laugh, and seems to want to ask what she finds so funny, but thinks better of it. Serena sighs and flips the card toward her, using a wisp of power to guide it right to Abial’s hands. The other girl looks surprised, but takes it out of the air and then smiles a little before wafting her own card over to Serena. The picture isn’t much better, and Serena smirks; it seems that they’ve agreed to a truce, without saying a word. If they’re going to spend the next week or so together, speaking terms will help the days pass. It doesn’t mean Serena’s forgiven her, or will ever really forgive her for that betrayal, but suddenly – in the light of an actual mission, and the danger of death – she figures it’s better to be on the same team.

  Suddenly, Kion’s face fuzzes onto the screen, he also looks like he’s been up all night. He grins half-heartedly at them. “I just wanted to say good luck, not that you need it. You’re gonna do great.” He sounds a little scattered, like he’s concentrating on a dozen things at once. He probably is.

  But he’s made the time to come around and wish them luck, and Serena grins back at him, feeling reassured. His stoic presence has been a constant in her life for as long as she can remember.

  “Thanks, Kion. If you wanna give me something to make it back for, move the C4 classes to next week. I’ve been looking forward to them for ages!”

  He smirks, tucking his long hair behind his ear. “Ah, maybe. Jue’s pretty excited about them though, so how about she just catches you up?”

  “You jerk!” Serena grins, forgetting for a moment that her commanding officer is there to see her teasing his third in command. Her father clears his throat, though, and Kion colours ever so faintly, then nods to her and Abial, who is standing with an expressionless face.

  “Take care. Remember your training.” He cuts the communication before Serena has a chance to respond.

  She turns to shrug at Abial, wanting to feel the comfort of their old camaraderie, willing to set aside what happened in the Arena, for now at least. She starts to smile, and freezes when Abial yoinks her card back, dropping Serena’s on the table, and sending a thought right at her.

  If you think we’re friends again now, get your head out your ass. We’re not even.

  The amount of hatred wrapped up in Abial’s thought form makes Serena take an actual step backwards. There’s something hidden under the message – a deep, stirring feeling that Serena can’t make out, a shadow in the deep waters of Abial’s emotions. She knows her bewilderment shows clearly in her face; she has no idea what she’s done to earn such revilement. Worse, Abial offers no explanation. Her face twists in a cruel sneer and she shoulders her pack, long legs carrying her swiftly out of the room.

  Serena stares after her. We’re not even? What did I do? She’s the one who nuked me up!

  Her father rests his hand suddenly on her shoulder and squeezes gently. When she looks up, his eyes are kind, and she lets herself lean against him for a moment.

  “Whatever happened between you two is going to have to wait. I wouldn’t send you with her if it wasn’t the only choice. We’ve got a contact for you on the other side – one of Kion’s boys. Known the family forever, apparently. He says you can trust the guy. I wish the situation between you girls was different. But it’s too risky to send either of you alone, and everyone else is compromised for facial recognition. We don’t have long enough to take the dust roads through the dead land. Two young women aren’t going to rouse much suspicion.”

  He sighs deeply, rubbing the back of his neck as though to relieve a headache. “If we could just get into their damned systems.”

  She twists her mouth to one side, nodding in agreement. If they could get into the Institute’s systems, they wouldn’t have to guess at the meaning of garbled communications. If they could hack the tube security, they could erase some of the data from the facial recog programs, and he could send Kion or another experienced operative. Instead, he’s being forced to send his own daughter to a place where he won’t be able to help her if things go wrong.

  She shrugs a shoulder, forcing lightness into her tone for his sake. “Eh, we’ll be fine. We’ll go, find out what they’re up to, and snake whatever or whoever they’re after out from under them. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  *

  Her bravado is still in place an hour later, when they head out of the hidden entrance to ARC, deep in the least-frequented area of the slums, far from the City Wall. The sun is still low and gauzy in the red dust of the desert as they sneak through the sleeping townships. The broken buildings and rickety shacks are quiet, the population sleeping or out of sight. The oppressive heat of the outside always comes as a bit of a shock, even this early in the morning, and both girls are sporting attractive sweat stains by the time they reach the Wall. Still, it helps them look the part, Serena thinks.

  A tentative mental scan of the area, and brief mind-to-mind conversation, and they agree that there are no psionic Readers at the Wall. So they join the queue of ragged individuals heading through the Wall itself toward the factory district, or to clean the streets of the higher-class neighbourhoods. Serena checks her mental shields, nervous. Entering the Wall is always a little breathtaking. Towering into the sky, hundreds of metres tall, the sparkling white monstrosity defies belief. There are no lines or marks to hint at the method of construction. It’s an impossibility, proof of power beyond the understanding of most citizens. To Serena, it is the physical manifestation of the inequalities between the slums and the City itself, which is somehow always clean, even on the outside, where the sun bakes the ground and the dust blows freely.

  The guards are like the Wall – emotionless, efficient, and totally indifferent to what goes on around them. Serena’s heart is in her throat as they approach those soldiers, and the barrier that guards the gaping maw of the main City entrance. It feels like she’s swallowed a rock. Keeping her nerves from her face takes all her attention, but zapping through takes only a few moments, and then they head into the City itself. She makes sure she releases her breath slowly as they join the queue of people going into the City to work, trying to blend. Just another day collecting credits, nothin’ to see here, friends.

  The stark differences between the City and the slums never fail to make her insides squirm. Outside, the population are huge-eyed and too thin. Children play in the dust and cough their lungs into bloody scraps as their parents try to eke out a living however they can. The houses are built from recycled materials scrounged from the dumps. But, oh, inside. Inside, the gleaming buildings are unnaturally clean and shining. The main streets are shielded from the worst of the sun’s rays by clever interlocking transparent sheets, which protect the delicate skin of the cerebrally rich. The superstructures are huge, beautiful, flowing edifices that create abstract shadows on the solar-paneled roads. Apartments meld seamlessly in rolling curves; gleaming silver and reflective, like the skin of a huge dragon. It’s no wonder people long to be invited into this clean and wholesome world. I’d stay, if I didn’t know better.

  Abial nudges Serena gently in the side, indicating that she should stop gawping, and they turn down a side street, walking as if they belong there. Their clothes are a careful selection of browns and greys, and didn’t stand out from the clothing of the workers as they came through the Wall. They’re also new enough that nobody blinks an eye when they detach from that trudging line of the downtrodden and slip out one of the separate barrier exits for citizens, instead of remaining and being sorted onto a shuttle for work. Hopefully, right now, they just look like two teenagers coming in for training.

  Honest, buddy, I just wanna be part of the Watch when I grow up, so I can meet Gav Belias and have his beautiful, dimpled babies.

  They duck out of view into a preselected garden square, the sheer waste of which almost makes Serena swear out loud. The fresh water used to keep this nook alone green and fresh could have grown food for several families. The girls quickly neaten their clothing, clip their hair into t
he latest City fashion, and clean off their shoes on the thick grass. Their leggings need a good slapping to remove the dust of the townships, but a little bit of Talent takes care of it quietly. They scan each other for any tiny clue that might give them away, in the same way all trainees have practiced a thousand times, and nod, satisfied.

  “Ready?” Serena forms the word carefully, letting the soft vowels of an educated citizen change her pronunciation from her normal, rough accent. Elocution lessons are the worst, but now that she’s out on a mission and needs to soften her coarse speech, she’s glad she had them.

  Abial smirks, her toffee-coloured hair neat and her fighter’s calluses hidden by a pair of soft faux leather gloves. “Certainly, my dear. We’d best get to the station.” The cultured voice sounds strange and at odds with Abial’s flint-hard eyes and the musculature visible in her folded arms. But she needs to adjust her posture as well, or she’ll get them both caught.

  Stand less like a soldier. Serena sends her a wisp of power, with an image of her tensed body, poised on the balls of her feet like a cat. She also forces herself to relax, sinking into the persona she’s going to have to embody if they want to make it through the security checks at the tube. She smiles – an open smile, the smile of someone with few cares in the world – and offers the crook of her arm to her companion. Abial returns the smile and they spin on their slippered heels, leaving their rough selves and the small green garden behind them.

  As they walk, they chatter about nonsense, making light-hearted conversation. No one even spares them a second glance, except for a few young men they pass, some of whom offer frank but unthreatening grins. Life really is different inside, Serena reflects. Outside, those grins would be violence-promising leers, and two girls wouldn’t be walking alone. Well, Serena and Abial do have a few advantages the average slum-dweller doesn’t, but still. Here, the doorways are empty, no sneering prostitutes give them the once over, and no cripples crouch with hands outstretched, braving the sun’s rays to beg, knowing their lives are almost finished anyway, starvation or cancer a constant threat. There aren’t even any bundles of rags marking slumped bodies that may or may not already be corpses. The citizens walk the streets, totally confident in their own safety.

  And Serena and Abial appear to be just like them; nothing out of the ordinary, except that their eyes are scanning for threats and camera lenses. They spot members of the Watch walking the streets with negligent ease, and evade them effortlessly. It’s almost insulting how simple it is to walk around the City. It’s like her years of training are being wasted on these fools. Although ... she smirks as she remembers her first trip inside, and the debacle that followed. Alright, this time, I won’t forget where I am and catch a pigeon for my lunch.

  There’s a hum in the air around the tube station when they get there. People who have just arrived hurry out of the imposing square building, which squats like a toad at the end of the shining street. Family members exclaim with delight and greet their loved ones. Off-duty soldiers slap hands on the backs of their crews, as they return from what must be out-of-City assignments. The queue to enter the building stretches for four blocks, with people waiting contentedly in the shade, and no sense of irritation or urgency. Vendors – slumdwellers who hope to earn enough credits to buy citizenship for themselves and their families – walk up and down the sidewalks with trays of food and drink for the citizens’ convenience. The air virtually vibrates with the happiness of people who know that those in charge are working in their best interests, and are looking after them.

  Suddenly she spots a dwell she knows, and twists a little so her back is facing the man who sells trinkets to the kids at ARC every Sevenday. There are any number of ways to be caught in the City, and being recognized is just one of them. She needs to be more careful.

  They join the line, trying to look like they belong, and fill the time talking about the wonderful sights they’ve seen, and how exciting the University courses seem. How thrilled ‘Gabrielle’s’ father will be that she wants to follow in his footsteps and study at Memphist University, home of the greatest scientists for generations. The line shuffles forward, a few older couples sparing them looks of condescending affection – patronizing ‘Isn’t it wonderful to be young and have your whole life ahead of you?’ sort of looks. A strapping lad in his twenties spits something out into a handkerchief, and then drops it with a look of disdain, throwing the rest of his food pack after it. Serena watches him waste the food, wanting to throw him over the Wall to see the six-year-olds combing through sewage, looking for something they can sell so they can afford a few scraps of bread. But that would blow her cover. So the food pack lies in the filtered sunlight until a bony street cleaner picks it up.

  The woman disappears down a side street with it clutched in her thin hands, as though someone is going to take it away from her.

  The ire must have been rising in Serena’s eyes, because Abial nudges her with a sharp elbow, harder than necessary, and giggles, gesturing faux-surreptitiously at a young soldier.

  She swallows her anger and joins Abial in watching the handsome, dark-haired man marching into the military entrance. His hair is tied back in the unfashionable horsetail style Kion prefers. Maybe it’s some sort of strange military thing? It does nothing to detract from the symmetry of his face, though, or the beauty of his flashing golden-brown eyes. He spares a lopsided smile for them before disappearing through the large black door, and Serena glances at Abial, grinning in turn at the light blush visible on her tan skin.

  “Ooh, you’re so handsome, mister. Will you take me to the school dance?” she teases quietly.

  Abial abruptly whirls toward her, eyes full of rage. “You just ... you just shut up, Ser–” There is a hint of Talent in her command, but nothing Serena can’t resist with her own power, in time to stop her from getting the whole name out. That could cause further trouble for them down the line; the Institute might end up tagging them facially, and if they get her name as well ... it might come back to bite them if the wrong person gets read.

  “No need to call me ‘sir,’ Laura, I’m not that butch!” The emphasis on the false name cuts through whatever caused the flare of temper, and Abial nods, the colour in her cheeks fading. A quick glance around convinces Serena that nobody has noticed anything amiss; just two friends teasing each other as they wait. Her own growing questions, though, are another matter. What the nuke is going on with you, you crazy bitch?

  The rest of their queuing is done in tense, awkward silence, which does absolutely nothing for Serena’s growing nerves. Abial is acting totally out of character, and putting them both in danger; an unpredictable outburst like that could cost them their lives, or, if the Institute gets a hold of them, their minds.

  They shuffle through the wide doorway and hold their IdentCards over the reader, while a scanner passes down their bodies in a visible blue line. Her heart stutters as it turns orange on her bag, but Abial seems totally unruffled, and Serena follows her gratefully as she marches down the arrow that appears on the floor to a bag check area. Her mind is racing, wondering what could be in her bag. Surely the techs at ARC checked it before they left? Had they missed something? Maybe she should have gone through it herself, but they were in such a rush. Now she wishes she’d taken the time. If whatever’s in that bag gets them caught …

  She stuffs her hand in her pocket and hopes no one notices her clenched fist.

  When they stop, a brusque soldier, who looks a lot like a brown and pockmarked potato, pats the table in front of him with a fleshy hand. “Bags here, IdentCards to me.” His tone is professional, and he doesn’t seem alarmed.

  “Yes, officer.” Abial sounds perfect: disinterested and mildly irritated at the hold up. Not even slightly nervous.

  Forcing herself to remain calm as well, Serena plops her bag down where he indicated and carefully hands over her IC. Abial follows suit, and they wait as the cards are scanned. He places them on an electronically marked grid to the s
ide of the table, then rummages through their possessions with alacrity. Serena keeps her face an affected mask of boredom, like this happens every day. Like she knows what will happen next. It’s a good job they don’t have a bioscan on her; she’s sure her racing pulse would be flagged as a suspicious reaction.

  He hauls out a datapad and turns it around, so that it’s facing them. It should be one of the special ones ARC keeps for undercover work, but what if it’s not? What if someone made a mistake, or something about it is questionable? Her stomach turns, but she reaches for it anyway.

  “Turn this on, please,” he says sharply.

  Her eyes slide sideways, subtly scoping out the immediate area, just in case the mission is blown and they have to fight their way out. To the right of them, a middle-aged couple are having their own belongings investigated. They don’t look like people to be suspicious of at first glance, but neither do Serena and Abial. She hopes against hope that this is a random screening – that they haven’t already messed up – manually switches on the machine, and enters her password when she’s prompted. A completely innocent display comes up, and she breathes a sigh of relief, but as unobtrusively as possible, showing none of her reaction on her face.

  The soldier clicks into a few files, then holds a hand scanning unit over the device and grunts when it beeps.

  “Thank you, have a pleasant trip.” He dismisses them, sliding their cards back over the table, and that’s the end of it. They’re free to go. Serena’s fingertips tingle as she picks her card up, and she hastily shoves her things back into her bag.

  “Have a good day!” Her bright tone causes potato face to give them a bemused look, and they quickly slip back through the crowd to join the line of people heading to Second City. The queue moves fast, now, and Serena notes eighteen cameras and twelve scanning units that will definitely have clocked them. If this mission goes south, their faces will be registered as threats, and she’ll never come here again.