Rebels

by Jill Williamson

  And with that, Gacy left Mason to it.

  The cows were friendly, so Mason talked to them, telling them his woes of Glenrock and Ciddah and how he was worried about Omar. The rest of his shift dragged by. When a bell rang out, Wayd walked up to Mason.

  “The bell means we’re done for the day,” Wayd said.

  So Mason left the feedlot and followed the mob toward the city. He walked around Cibelo, which reminded him of the entertainment district in the Midlands. There were dozens of establishments, but everything looked a little bit rundown and careworn. Mason hoped he might become better acquainted with someone here soon. He could use a friend who could explain how things worked in this place. Unfortunately, he didn’t think many people would want to befriend a striker. He wondered if he could get some other clothes. It would be easier to make friends without the orange jumpsuit.

  He returned to the cafeteria for dinner. The establishment clearly wasn’t used to vegetarians, forcing him to scrounge up a plate of droopy lettuce and some peas and carrots. Mason sat at a table near the entrance with his back to the door, hoping that would keep people from noticing him or picking a fight. A valid concern — the other strikers were loud and rowdy, and started two food fights and one fistfight while Mason ate.

  He’d just about cleaned his plate when the SimTag in his hand buzzed, like a warning of some kind. A voice came over the speakers in the cafeteria.

  “Ten minutes to curfew. Ten minutes to striker curfew.”

  Mason took a deep breath. Time to go.

  He got up and turned in his tray, then walked upstairs slowly, feet dragging. It felt as if he were walking to his own execution. The warnings from the block enforcers had him scared out of his mind. Look for Rock Fist, he reminded himself. Rock Fist.

  A mob around the elevator sent Mason to the steps. A river of men clad in orange jumpsuits flowed up each flight. Mason kept to the side, limping up the steps. People ran around him. A few bumped his shoulder on purpose. The smells of body odor were strong, though after the day Mason had experienced, he bet he was doing his part.

  It surprised him to see the enforcer window closed as he and the mob walked through the lobby on the second floor, though he supposed the enforcers would be quite vulnerable in this crowd. They were likely watching through the cameras.

  Mason studied the men’s faces without trying to look like he was staring at any one person. The majority of the men seemed to be middle aged, though there were some younger faces and many older ones. Which was Scorpion? Lethal? Rock Fist?

  He passed by the first door of block 2C and entered the second without drawing any attention to himself. He had thought this out all day. The second door opened right into Rock Fist’s sleeping area. Bed three, Penn had told him, which was the bottom of the second bunk against the wall in the corner. It was currently empty. Mason walked into the narrow aisle between the first and second bunks and squatted against the wall, hoping no one would see him before Rock Fist did.

  The men seemed to loom overhead as they filed inside, a mattress length from where he waited. Mason kept even his breath silent, but his position was making his sore leg ache. He shifted his weight onto his good leg, trying to get a little relief.

  “Move it, Hobbles!” a loud voice jeered, every word a near scream. An elderly man stumbled into the entry door and grabbed hold of the post on the end of Rock Fist’s bunk. A tall, skeletal man entered behind him. “Don’t fall now, you ancient.” He fisted the back of the old man’s jumpsuit, pulled him off the bedpost, then shoved him forward, right in front of Mason, and onto the bottom bunk in the very corner.

  The bully cackled as the old man’s head struck the wall, but his voice tapered off when his eyes locked onto Mason’s. “Who are you?”

  Mason looked at the floor.

  “What are you doing on the floor, sneak? You don’t belong here.” The bully lunged in between the bunks, hands outstretched.

  Mason jumped from his crouch, but his sore legs didn’t get him very far. He fell onto Rock Fist’s bunk and wiggled over the bed until he fell out on the other side.

  The bully darted back to the main row and cut Mason off between bunks two and three before Mason could get to his feet.

  Mason stood slowly, then sat on Rock Fist’s bunk like it was his.

  That didn’t faze the bully. He seized the front of Mason’s jumpsuit in both hands and dragged him out like he weighed nothing. Mason grabbed the man’s wrists and pushed them back, but that seemed ineffective. So he grabbed the man’s throat and pressed his thumbs over the man’s carotid arteries.

  The bully’s eyes bulged with fear, but only for a moment before he twisted over and threw Mason on the floor. Mason’s back smacked against the tile and knocked the wind out of him. He tried again to get his thumbs on the man’s neck, but someone else slid up beside him and pinned his arms against the floor — a small man with tiny eyes.

  Lord, help me.

  “What are you doing, Wicked?” a deep voice said from somewhere above.

  “Block crasher,” the bully said.

  “Let’s see him.”

  Wicked sat back, took Mason’s left arm from the little-eyed man, and together they pulled him to standing while stretching out his arms.

  A man pushed through the crowd. He was pale, bald, had horn implants, and his face was tattooed in hundreds of puzzle pieces. He had blue rings around his eyes that were inky black. Mason knew it must be due to contacts, but the effect was hideous. “Who are you?”

  “Mason.”

  “You packing?”

  Mason didn’t understand the question.

  “You come here to take Scorpion out?” Wicked asked. “Who sent you here?”

  Ah, so this was Scorpion. “I live here now. Two C, bed twenty-six.”

  “A newman.” Scorpion grinned, revealing teeth colored shiny black with SimArt. “Well, this is a celebration. Two C hasn’t had a newman since Hobbles limped his way in here.”

  Men were still filing inside the room. Mason eyed the bed that was supposed to belong to Rock Fist, but it was still empty.

  Scorpion leaned his face close to Mason’s. “Now, what did you say, raven? Bed twenty-six?” He walked through the crowd, which parted for him like it was made of opposing magnets. The men holding Mason dragged him after Scorpion, who stopped at bunk twenty-six and tapped the side with his hand. “That’s too bad. Strongboy sleeps in this bed. Where you at, Strongboy? You been holding out on me, peer?”

  A man stepped into view. He was as big as General Otley, like someone had inflated him two sizes larger than everyone else. “Leave him be.” His voice was deep and low.

  “What’ll you give me for him?” Scorpion asked.

  Strongboy shook his head. “I thought we were done with this stuff.”

  “I like him.” Scorpion looked back to Mason, slid his hand down the side of Mason’s face. “Oh, I like him a lot. Maybe I’ll trade you for Luella. Get me a new lifer.”

  “I’m with Rock Fist,” Mason spat out.

  Scorpion stepped closer, raised his eyebrows. “That so?”

  “Yes,” Mason said.

  “Stimming block enforcers tell you to say that?” Scorpion jerked his head to the side. “Bring him.”

  The guys dragged Mason after Scorpion. When they made it out into the open space before the entrance to the showers, the little guy holding Mason’s right arm screamed and released him. Then Wicked doubled over and fell to the floor. Both had clearly been stunned.

  The enforcers were watching. Good.

  Mason looked over to Scorpion, who stood at the foot of the bed in the opposite corner of the room from the place Hobbles had been thrown.

  Scorpion straightened his spine, pointed to the bottom bunk. “You sleep here, raven.”

  But Mason knew he was safe, for the moment. “I don’t think so.” His legs were shaking so badly he thought he might collapse, but he backed his way past Strongboy’s bunk.

  A muscular guy t
apped his shoulder. He had a thick, black chin beard. “Me and mine will protect you, peer. It’ll cost you, but you’ll be safe. They call me Lethal.”

  Mason shook his head and backed to the opposite corner of the room. “No, thanks. I’m with Rock Fist.” He returned to where he’d started, crouched against the wall between bunks one and two.

  “I’m-a get you later, raven,” Scorpion yelled across the room. “The BEs can’t be everywhere at once. Just you wait until dark.”

  Mason was certain his stress had blocked enough blood flow to his heart that the muscle could stop working at any moment. He took slow, calming breaths and thanked God for the yellow cameras. He didn’t understand why Scorpion would claim anyone. It wasn’t like these men were completely isolated. They were free to visit Cibelo like everyone else. Free to meet women.

  “You okay?”

  Mason looked to his left and the source of the voice. The old man named Hobbles. “Yeah. I don’t understand, though. What does he want?”

  “It’s about power. Dominance. Plus, Scorpion can make credits off you.”

  A boy who looked younger than Mason hung his head over the bunk above where Hobbles sat. “You don’t need him,” the kid said. “You can sell yourself. Plenty will pay.”

  Mason wanted to puke. “Why don’t they just go pay at a club in Cibelo?”

  “Not enough women,” Hobbles said. “They’ve got waiting lists. And most clubs don’t allow strikers.”

  “Ah.” So this was why Lawten had sent Mason here. Mason had underestimated him.

  “Who’s this?”

  Mason looked up. A man stood in the opening between bunks one and two. He had chin-length graying black hair and a short beard. His hair was swept back over his head, making his forehead look nearly half the size of his face.

  “Hay-o, Rock,” the boy said. “This here’s Mason. Scorpion tried to claim him, but he said he’s with you.”

  “I don’t know you,” Rock Fist said.

  “I realize that.” Mason pushed to standing, wincing at the tightness in his thigh. “The block enforcers said you’d help me.”

  “I don’t have any more beds for helping people,” Rock said.

  “I don’t need a bed,” Mason said. “I can sleep on the floor.”

  Rock Fist’s hair fell into his eyes and he swept it back behind his ear. “I bet you can. What are you in for?”

  Mason thought of the best way he could word this. “I stole Renzor’s girl.”

  Rock Fist barked a laugh. “Oh, that won’t do. You need to have a better story than that or the boys will start calling you love names. How’d you get caught?”

  “I broke into Champion House and rescued her. She got away. Into the basements with Baby Promise and the latest Outsider Queen. Renzor wasn’t happy.”

  A wide grin stretched across Rock Fist’s face. “Your girl an Outsider?”

  “A medic in the SC. I tasked there too.”

  “But you’re an Outsider.” It wasn’t a question.

  “What makes you say that?” Mason asked.

  “You’re far too pretty, and they don’t sell roller paint in Cibelo. From which village?”

  “Why would you assume I’m from a village? Why not Wyoming?”

  Rock Fist merely waited for Mason to answer.

  “Glenrock.”

  Rock smiled at that. “They liberate you as a rebel?”

  “I don’t know. They didn’t say.”

  “Then they didn’t. Mason.” Rock Fist said the name as if many pieces of a puzzle had come together in his mind. He smiled again. “You’re one lucky shell getting put in here with me, you know that?”

  “That’s become abundantly clear in the last ten minutes.”

  Rock Fist chuckled. “Mason. The smart one. The medic. Yeah, I’ll claim you, boy. I got your back.” And with that, Rock Fist turned around and shouted, “Listen up, you sick shells. This boy Mason is mine. You hear what I’m saying, Scorpion? Mine. Hands off. Don’t even look at him. Don’t even brush up against him while you’re coming in the front door. You do, I will make you scream. That clear?”

  Mumbles of affirmation rolled around the block.

  A chill ran over Mason.

  “Why you want his skinny butt anyway?” Scorpion’s voice.

  “That’s not your business. It’s just a fact. Deal with it. Now, I’m going to need a mattress over here, so someone better cough up.”

  Mason’s gaze swept the room. No one was moving.

  “I’m not going to ask again,” Rock said.

  Movement over by the first door caught Mason’s attention. A man stood up and threw back the covers on his bed, revealing two mattresses stacked together. He pulled off the top one, dragged it between two bunks in the middle, and dropped it in the aisle in front of Rock Fist’s bunk.

  Rock Fist waved at the boy on the top bunk. “Get down here and help me, Teardrop. You too, Mason.”

  Mason jumped to standing. The boy climbed down, and he, Mason, and Rock Fist pushed the bunk over until it met the empty one on the other side. Then Rock arranged the mattress on the floor in the now wider gap between bunks one and two.

  “Just until they get used to you being here,” Rock Fist said. “Then we can find you a bunk.”

  “Thanks,” Mason said.

  “I hope you’ll remember this, boy,” Rock Fist said. “There might come a time when you decide you don’t like me very much.”

  “I doubt that.” But Mason wondered. Was this man only helping him in exchange for something? And if so, what?

  CHAPTER

  4

  Omar was dying. At least that’s how he felt. The medics who’d taken his clothes and the contact lenses had refused to give him his meds, saying someone would take care of that on the inside, whatever that meant. Then some enforcer peons took him to some enforcer rank who called himself the liberator, told him he was in a task prison, and that he would be tasking in the poultry slaughterhouse. When Omar had asked about his meds, the maggot wouldn’t give him anything either.

  Now he was riding with two new enforcer peons on some kind of underground train to who knew where. Sector six, the liberator had said, though Omar had barely been listening once he’d learned he wasn’t going to get any juice.

  He wondered what they’d done with Mason.

  Omar turned in his seat on the train. “What about my meds?” he asked the enforcer peons. He had to lift his voice over the sound of the truck.

  “Meds are distributed once a week when you check in for clean clothes,” one of them said.

  “Once a week? Are there stims here?”

  “Sure, but you’ve got to buy them, and they’re not cheap.”

  “How not cheap?”

  “You get ten credits a day. A level one hit of alcohol will cost you five.”

  Two hits of alcohol a day? “What about brown sugar?”

  “User, eh?” The peon shook his head.

  “How much?” Omar asked again.

  “Fifty for a level one, I think. Maybe five hundred for a level ten.”

  Walls! It would take Omar three weeks to save up enough credits for one vial of his usual. And he still needed to buy a new PV.

  “Look, vaping that stuff will kill you,” the peon said. “If I were you, I’d quit.”

  “Don’t you mean it will liberate me?”

  “We’re past all that now, don’t you think?” the peon said. “No one dies during liberation. There’s no next life. Old people and strikers are exiled to the Lowlands to work the fields. That’s where we’ll all truly die. Surprise, surprise. Welcome to Bliss.”

  Well, that was one possibility Omar hadn’t seen coming.

  At the stop for sector six, they got off the truck train. The enforcers took him up to the ground level, where the awful stench of something rotten dominated the air. They went into a building with a sign that said Men’s Striker Residence, which turned out to be his new home. He was in room 3 – 18, a closet with four
bunk beds and a doorless bathroom with four doorless showers.

  Whatever.

  There was nothing Omar could do here. No way to continue being the Owl. No way to get the truth out to Safe Landers. No way to help Shay or ever see her again. The lenses were gone, so he couldn’t show anyone what he was experiencing. He couldn’t even vape himself to death, so he’d likely die in slow agony. It was over. Done. God had finally punished him for his sins. Justice had prevailed.

  The enforcers took him over to the slaughterhouse. Omar had heard the word somewhere before, but he couldn’t recall the source. Probably some Old movie. He discovered quickly this was the building where they killed chickens. There’d been no such place in Glenrock. Animals were killed when it was time and usually on the chopping block behind someone’s home. They had no way to freeze meat, so they killed only what they needed and only when they needed it.

  The enforcers left Omar in a dinky office with a grizzled man who called himself Taz Akers. Akers gave Omar a tour of the place. It was entirely automated. The chickens came in from outside in flat crates on conveyor belts, squawking and shaking. Omar was told these crates came in early each morning, after they sat for an hour or so to give the birds a chance to calm down before being slaughtered.

  “Why?” Omar asked. “Seems like a waste of time.”

  “They need to settle for the taskers to be able to pick them up and hang them upside down on the rack.”

  In the first room, some taskers opened the crates and hung each live chicken by their feet onto metal hooks on a moving rail. That rail carried the chickens along, then dipped them into a trough of water, which Akers said was electrified.

  “Stuns them,” Akers said.

  The rail rose up on the other side of the bath and carried the chickens through a hole in the wall, where a mechanical blade slit their throats as they passed by. Blood dripped down onto a shiny steel counter and drained into a trough that led to who knew where. And the rail kept moving, carrying the dead chickens into another room.