by Tania Hutley
The popper hits the wall where I was learning, and I pull the two men down to the ground with me, trying to cover them with my arms.
A heat wave slams into us, its force strong enough to tear me away from the guards and skid me further across the floor. The explosion is so loud, it sounds like the popper went off inside my skull. My skin feels like it’s on fire.
I lie still, too shocked to move. Am I alight? The pain is lessening, and I don’t feel so hot anymore. All I can hear is a loud ringing noise. I’m panting, but I can’t hear the sound of my own breaths.
Hands touch me. Somebody grabbing me. I lift my head and stare into Cale’s frantic expression. His lips are moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
Behind him, something is on fire. Flames climb high, then cold water explodes from the ceiling as the shelter’s sprinkler system goes off. The chill of the water is a welcome relief. I still feel crispy, but when I scramble to my feet and stare down at myself, I don’t have so much as a scratch, let alone a burn. I may look human, but every part of this Skin is tougher than any person would be.
Sinkers push past us, running outside to escape the water that’s raining down on us from the sprinklers. At my feet, one of the guards I tried to save is lying still, his skin burned. The other guard is a short distance away, and he looks almost as bad.
I start toward him, but Cale grabs my arm and shakes his head. “All your guards are dead,” he mouths.
I still can’t hear him over the ringing in my ears, but I nod. The stack of cartons with the food bars in them is on fire. The man must have thrown more than one popper, because there’s nothing left of some of the crates but a mess of splintered wood and food chunks.
“Is anyone else hurt?” I ask Cale, barely hearing the words that come out of my mouth.
He nods, and points over to where Spade is crouched over, attending to some people sprawled on the floor.
“We need to get them some help.” Water runs into my mouth when I talk, and the words buzz weirdly in my head.
“Already on the way.” This time I hear him a little, though I still need to read his lips. “Come on.” He leads me out of the shelter.
I look around for the man who did this, but he must be long gone. He did what he came for, and destroyed the one good thing the workers have experienced in who knows how long.
Anger rises in my gut.
The Beast doesn’t get to ruin everything. I won’t let him win.
As soon as we’re outside, Cale turns to me. His gaze runs up and down my body, examining me, his expression worried. “You’re okay, aren’t you? You’re not hurt and hiding it?”
“I’m fine.” I run my hands over my arms, checking that it’s true. The ringing in my ears is quietening, and I’m not in any pain.
“Okay.” His frown softens. “You need to get out of here.”
“But I need to make sure the injured are taken to hospital, and—”
“I’ll take care of it. Having President Morelle here will just make things more complicated. Your guards are dead, and people might start to wonder why you’re not, especially if anyone else decides to attack you, and you need to fight back. You won’t be able to hide the fact you’re so much stronger than a regular person.”
He’s right, but I hate to leave when people are hurt. Still, I let him lead me toward my car, which is waiting for me a short distance up the road.
The car door slides open, and he motions for me to get in. “Go. Please. I’ll make sure everything gets cleaned up here.”
“Wait. Are the reporters still here? Are they okay?” I scan the crowd of people who’ve already left the shelter.
“There’s one of them.” Cale points, and I spot a bedraggled-looking reporter leaning against the front wall of a neighboring building. Her face and clothes are filthy, but she’s still holding her camera.
“Is my face as dirty as hers?” I ask Cale.
He gives me a puzzled look. “Apart from being wet, you look okay.”
I run a hand over my dripping hair and check my sodden clothes, then cross to talk to the reporter. “I want to make a statement,” I tell her, keeping my tone brisk.
She blinks at me, her expression dazed. “A statement?”
“That’s right. Start recording.”
She still looks confused, but lifts her camera and points it at me.
I clear my throat. My ears are still ringing, but I speak as clearly and firmly as I can. “A terrible act of terrorism has just occurred. As you can see, I was caught up in it, and it brings me great sadness to say that innocent people have been hurt or killed by a callous bomber.” I motion to the milling crowd, and the reporter dutifully sweeps her camera around them before turning it back onto me.
A drop of water rolls down my forehead from my wet hair, and I blink it out of my eye. “As acting president and head of Triton’s largest corporation, I have a responsibility to care for every citizen of Triton, including those who are living in my shelters and working in my factories. If this terrorist act has done anything, it’s proven the need for urgent and immediate changes in all Old Triton factories and shelters. That’s why I’m immediately putting in place new laws to improve security and safety. And all factory owners will need to provide better food and free medical care for those who need it.” I stare into the camera, hoping my anger and resolve shows in my eyes, and that the Beast will see it. I hope this recording makes him spit with rage. He wanted a war? Now he’s got one.
“The new laws will improve the lives of all Old Tritoners,” I go on. “It’s about time factory owners looked after their workers and used their profits to make things better. Starting now, every industrialist will take responsibility for the well-being of their employees. If they won’t do it voluntarily, then I’ll make them do it. That’s a promise.”
I can’t think of anything else to say, so I motion for the reporter to cut off the recording. “You got that?” I ask.
She lowers her camera, staring at me with wide eyes. “I got it.”
“Upload it to b-Net now.”
She rushes to obey before I can change my mind. Her fingers are trembling, so hopefully the recording didn’t wobble too much. I can hardly blame her. Only minutes after surviving an explosion, she’s been handed an exclusive scoop with President Morelle that will probably make her career. No wonder she’s a little shaky.
“It’s done,” she says, looking up. “Thank you, Madam President.”
I nod, turning away. The recording should spread to Sub Zero quickly. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if a 3-D image of my wet face is already appearing out of the bands of hundreds, maybe thousands, of people.
“Are you ready to go now?” Cale leads me back to the car. “That’s if you’ve finished provoking The Beast?” He shakes his head, his expression rueful. “You never back down, do you?”
“I’m leaving, aren’t I?” I look back at the milling crowd, still reluctant to just walk away. “You need to tell Keren and Spade that I’m sorry this happened, but I’m not going to let the Beast stop me.”
“Don’t worry about that now. Just take care of yourself.”
All the way back to the Morelle scraper, I think about how I’m going to get payback for what just happened. By the time I get up to my private apartment, the ringing in my ears has gone, but my anger hasn’t. All it takes is a little soap and water, and a change of clothes, and I’m ready to keep fighting back.
I’ve just finished getting changed when I hear the elevator. Sentin must be here, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to be pissed off I didn’t tell him about my plans to distribute food.
Sure enough, I find him in the living room, dressed, as always, in black. And yes, it suits him. But this time it seems symbolic, because I’ve put on a cream suit. It feels like we’re like two opposing chess players lining up across the board.
I square my shoulders, ready for him to berate me, and already planning the arguments I’ll use in my defence.
But no, that’s silly. He’s only worried that this Skin might have been damaged, not really about me. “No wounds,” I say crisply.
He drops his hand. “Good.”
“This Skin is fine,” I add, crossing to the window. “No thanks to the Beast. He was trying to kill me, and didn’t care who else he hurt.”
“Do you understand the consequences if the President’s Skin had been destroyed?” The tightness in Sentin’s voice makes me turn back to face him. His eyes are darker than normal and his lips are pale. For the first time since I’ve known him, he’s not entirely in control of his emotions. But is he angry? Or afraid?
“Blame the Beast,” I say. “Not me.”
“If President Morelle dies in public, we can’t manufacture a new Skin and keep going. If that happens, everything changes.”
I cross my arms. “There’s only one way to make sure this Skin stays safe. Help me stop him.”
Sentin takes off his high-tech glasses and studies the lenses as though looking for smudges. When he puts them back on, his emotions are tucked back out of sight. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do.” His tone is even. “But you’re rushing through changes that Triton isn’t yet ready for.”
“Old Triton is more than ready for change.”
“But New Triton isn’t. And using that Skin means you can live forever. Stop trying to fix everything this week, or this month. Start planning for the next hundred years.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” I frown. “But you’re not using a Skin. In your human body, you won’t live forever. If you want to be around next century, don’t you need to store your human body in one of those coffin pods that’ll keep it pumped full of whatever chemicals Edward Morelle was dosed with?”
“A pod is the opposite of a coffin. Think of it as a time capsule. When your body is inside it, you’re outside of time.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Are you going to use one? And are you planning to take this Skin away from me?” I lift my chin. “Because I won’t let you have it. Not if you don’t care about Old Triton.”
“I’m not about to take that Skin from you.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Why not?”
“If I used a Skin now, I’d lose the Deiterrans’ trust. We need to negotiate a peace treaty. That’s my priority.”
“And after the negotiations?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Do you want to keep that Skin?”
“I do.” It’s not until the words are out of my mouth that I realize how important the president’s power has become to me. Helping Old Triton has given me a sense of purpose that’s bigger than anything I’ve felt before. Maybe I’d be willing to give the Skin up if Sentin felt the same way, but if he doesn’t care about Old Triton, he could be as bad—or worse—than Edward Morelle was. He might decide to leave Old Triton the way it is, so New Tritoners can stay rich and comfortable. I’m not willing to take that risk.
I draw in a breath, a rush of resolve heating my blood. “You can’t have this Skin. And another thing. I’m not going to Deiterra with you until I’ve dealt with the Beast.”
I expect Sentin to get angry, or demand that I go. Instead, he turns and motions for me to follow. “Come with me. I want to show you something.” He walks toward the stairs that lead to the garden at the very top of the building. A robot gardener is tending the plants, and the room is humid, with the ventilation system emitting a steady hum. Up here, the air is thick with the scent of damp earth and growing things. All the walls and ceiling are uninterrupted glass, and the view takes my breath away.
“What do you see?” Sentin nods toward the windows.
I frown, confused by the question. “Skyscrapers. Triton and Deiterra. And a lot of sky. Why, what do you see?”
He turns to the glass, and his gaze grows distant. “I see a blueprint. I don’t limit my vision to what exists today. Instead, I picture what could be there in the coming decades. Looking over the entire city, small problems become insignificant.” He turns back to me, his eyes catching mine. “If you let go of your petty concerns, we can remodel Triton and Deiterra into a single utopia. You and I could do it together.”
An unwelcome warmth spreads through my chest. I’ve never had someone ask me to change the world with him before. I’ve got to admit, it’s a powerful offer. But for some reason, I feel like I’m betraying Cale by even considering it.
“Petty concerns?” To cover my uncertainty, I sound more offended than I really am.
He inclines his head. “The workers in Old Triton aren’t starving. Their existing food rations provide sufficient calories for their daily needs.”
I huff out a breath. “Shows what you know.”
“You’re focusing on trivial things. Instead of concerning yourself with minutiae, start thinking on a much larger scale.”
“Trivial? You wouldn’t think it was so trivial if you were the one going hungry.” I shake my head. “How can you make everything wonderful unless you fix what’s already broken?”
“You’re not an Old Tritoner anymore, Milla. Come up from the darkness and look at everything that’s laid out in front of you. There’s more on offer than you realize.” He sounds like he’s talking about the view, but then he steps closer to me, his eyes searching my face, and with a shock, I wonder if he’s talking about himself, telling me to look at him differently.
But that’s a crazy thought. Sentin couldn’t be suggesting I see him in a romantic way.
He’s taller than I am, so I have to tilt my head back to look into his face. He’s bathed in the light that’s pouring through the windows, and he’s wearing a snug black T-shirt and black jeans that emphasise his lean build. His scent is as complicated as he is, both sweet and spicy, like licorice and aniseed.
“We need to go to Deiterra,” he says. “The meeting’s arranged, and this is our chance to negotiate peace on our terms.” Instead of his usual matter-of-fact tone, there’s a hint of a question in his voice. As though he’s asking me to understand how important this is to him.
“But I can’t let the Beast get away with what he did today.” I shake my head, wrenching my gaze from his.
Sentin sighs. “The Beast can wait.”
“You don’t understand how vulnerable the people of Old Triton are. They have no protection against people like him.” I nod at the spectacular view. “Those scrapers go on forever, and they’re all full of people. No wonder New Tritoners forget there’s a whole other city underneath them. And all the way up here, it’d be even easier to forget. But I can’t do that.”
“You can’t see the bigger picture.” It’s a statement rather than a question, and it’s tinged with disappointment. Was Sentin hoping I’d choose his grand plan and stop caring about Old Triton?
“I’m only where I am because of dumb luck,” I tell him. “If Rayne hadn’t walked into the shelter that night, I’d still be there. If I were still alive, that is, which is doubtful, seeing as Tori had just been sent away. I probably would have been shark bait, dead in the dirt. She died instead, and I got lucky.”
He tilts his head, his voice going unexpectedly soft. “That Skin is changing you in subtle ways, and I thought it might make you narcissistic, but the opposite is true. You fought to get where you are, yet you’re not giving yourself enough credit for what you’ve achieved.”
My face warms and I glance away to hide my surprise. Sentin’s never like this. He’s distant and unemotional. He doesn’t give out compliments that make my heart beat faster.
“Now I want to fight for all the people who didn’t get lucky,” I say. “Maybe I feel guilty because I made it out and they didn’t. Whatever. I can help them, so I will.”
“A war with the Beast isn’t productive. Besides, he’s far more r
uthless than you are, and he’s demonstrated a willingness to endanger the people you’re trying to protect. Strategically speaking, it would be difficult for you to win a fight against him.”
“But when it comes to strategy, I have a secret weapon.”
“What’s that?”
I shoot him a hopeful look. “You.”
Eight
“The soldiers are all here,” Sentin tells me in a low voice. “All but the forty-seven who’ll remain as knights.”
I nod, though Sentin’s wrong about one thing. Morelle’s young, brainwashed soldiers aren’t all here. William is missing, because I sent him home with Ma.
We’re standing in the lobby of the Meat Locker. The last time I was here, I used a Knight Skin to get in, and wiped the chips of hundreds of soldiers before carrying William out. This time, the soldiers are lined up in rows, standing to attention in the giant room that used to hold over a thousand pods. I can still see the marks the pods left on the concrete floor. Without them, the place is an endless, echoing chasm that still reeks of sweat.
The soldiers are mostly teenagers, with a few older ones here and there. There are just over one thousand of them, all standing stiffly in an identical position with one hand to their forehead in a held salute.
I watched some of them use their Knight Skins to kill innocent people, but I have to keep reminding myself that it’s not their fault. The reason they’re killers is because Edward Morelle made them that way.
“At ease,” I say, sending my voice through my band so it projects through the enormous room.
All of their hands snap down at the same time. They stare straight ahead, their eyes lifted to the space just above my head, awaiting my orders.
I’m about to break their hearts.
“The Knight Skins are gone,” I say in a firm tone. “Permanently. The ones you used have been destroyed, and I’m not making any more of them.”