Infiltrators

by Alison Ingleby

  It was great.

  I turn my head so she can’t see the grin on my face.

  11

  Aleesha

  Over the next few days, things get worse. The riots continue, not at the same scale as the massacre in Rose Square, but every day more wounded people fill the streets. The rumours about the tronk in the food supply have turned into wild stories about the government rations, each more horrific than the last. One thread connects them all: the government is poisoning us.

  Shops are cleared out of food as people spend, beg and steal to avoid having to eat the government rations. Prices go up. Then the hunger strikes start.

  People surround the government food depots, sitting in front of the gates, chanting and cursing. I doubt it bothers the guards much. They fly in and out by pod and the gates only open to allow trucks out to deliver rations and medical supplies. The Metz come in to disperse the crowds, but they seem quite half-hearted about it. They’re probably happy that the people are starving themselves to death. Saves the hassle of killing them.

  It almost makes me laugh: people going on hunger strike when there isn’t any food to begin with. Almost.

  Trey spoke to his sister, who said this is happening all over the city, not just in Area Four. There are riots and protests in almost every area. Except the rich ones. The gangs from Four and Five have started moving up into Six, looting shops for food.

  Things have got a bit weird between me and Trey since our training session up on the roof. I’ve thought about suggesting another session – he needs the practice – but I think he might get the wrong idea. Sometimes I catch him looking at me when he doesn’t think I’m watching and the look makes me uncomfortable. Like we’re a couple or something.

  I should never have kissed him. But when he ran his fingers up my back, the feelings that surged through me weakened my resolve and I couldn’t help but give in to them. Now I’ve confused things. Confused myself. Trey’s not just some guy. He’s my friend. The only friend I’ve got. And I don’t want to lose my friend when things blow up. And they always do blow up, eventually.

  To take my mind off Trey, I’ve been stalking Metz officers. Trying to find Rogue, as I’ve named him. It’s a dangerous game and one I can only get away with because I know this part of the city far better than any Metz officer ever will. Even then, there are a couple of times when an officer catches me by surprise and I barely escape being shot or tasered.

  It’s a hopeless task. Like trying to pick out a single ant in an army of them. I sometimes wonder if perhaps I imagined the whole thing. Maybe he’s no different to the rest of them. I wish I’d thought to somehow mark his uniform, so I’d have a better chance of finding him.

  But it turns out that’s not necessary. Because he’s looking for me.

  It happens on the fifth day. A group of four officers are patrolling one of the main roads in Four. They patrol in bigger groups now they’re more likely to get attacked. People grudgingly make way for them. The odd person shouts or throws a bottle as they pass, but most are still too terrified to move. They keep their heads down and silently pray for the officers to pass them by.

  Something about the movement of one of the officers catches my eye. It lags behind and marches slightly out of sync with the other three. Rather than keeping its gaze locked on the street ahead, its head pivots occasionally, as if it’s looking for something.

  I drop down from my perch in the empty window frame and position myself carefully on the edge of a group of hobies with my back to the approaching Metz officers, so they can’t scan my face. Their footsteps beat a regular rhythm down the street.

  The first two officers pass me by, walking side by side, almost close enough to touch. The third walks past alone. I turn and look straight at the final officer. Its head turns fractionally toward me before returning to a neutral position. But it doesn’t pause, not even to scan me. It just keeps on walking down the street.

  I let out the breath I’ve been holding and am about to return to my window seat when a flicker of movement catches my eye. The final officer in the group slowly and deliberately moves its right hand behind its back and extends a single finger to the left.

  I freeze, staring at their retreating backs.

  Did I imagine that?

  “What’s up, eh?”

  My attention snaps to the scraggly haired old man in front of me. “What? Oh, nothing.”

  He grunts in response and licks his lips. His eyes run down my body. Time to go.

  I force my legs to move and follow the officers down the street, keeping a safe distance. It’s easy enough, they can’t exactly get lost in the crowd. About a hundred metres down, where a narrow side alley appears on the left, they pause and appear to have a conversation, though I can hear no words. Three of them move off, but the fourth – one who’d made the mysterious hand gesture – turns into the alleyway.

  I reach the entrance to the alleyway and press my back against the wall. It could be a trap.

  But I know this alley. It connects two main streets. No dead ends. I risk a peek around the corner. The officer’s standing part way down, motionless like a statue.

  I take a deep breath and, before I can think about how stupid a move this might be, step out and walk toward it. I stop when I’m two paces away. Close enough to see the tiny number imprinted in the armour.

  ML486. It’s him.

  We stare at each other. At least, I’m staring at him. Who knows what’s going on under that helmet.

  “You came to find me?” I ask eventually. My muscles are tense, my hand resting on the knife concealed against my leg.

  “Yes. For answers.”

  “Answers?” I’m stalling. Giles said the chip at the back of their neck connects to the suit. So if I could get him to take his helmet off, perhaps that would break the connection between him and whoever’s commanding him.

  “I let you go. You and the children. It was against protocol. But I felt …”

  The words sound odd, coming out in the standard gravelly neutral voice. It feels like I’m talking to a machine.

  “You felt what?”

  His shoulders rise in a shrug.

  “Did you feel like it was wrong to arrest us?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. I felt odd … inside. This isn’t normal.”

  Giles said the chip dampens their emotions.

  “You felt emotions?”

  “Emotions?”

  “Feelings. Like being happy or sad. I think … I think you have something in your brain that stops you feeling emotions when you have this suit on.” I take a deep breath. “If you can take off your helmet, that may break the connection and we can talk properly.”

  He shakes his head. “It is an offence punishable by termination to remove any part of your armour when outside the compound,” he intones.

  I shrug. “Well, I can’t help you then.”

  Will he take the bait?

  Another silence. “Can you take the helmet off?” I ask finally. Maybe Giles was wrong. Maybe once they’re in the suit they’re locked in, unable to release themselves.

  “I don’t know,” he admits. “In the compound, everything is removed for us. We are not designed to take it off ourselves.”

  I purse my lips and look up at him. There’s a faint join that runs across the shoulders and dips down in a curve at the front of the armour. If it does come off as a separate piece, there must be a catch somewhere.

  “Can I try?”

  The officer takes a step back. “No!”

  The shout bounces off the walls and I freeze. A spike of adrenaline courses through me. Surely the other officers must have heard that?

  But nothing happens, and after a moment my muscles relax.

  “It’s the only way.” My fingers itch to run along that join, to find the catch and remove his helmet. To finally see who, or what, lies underneath. I reach a hand up toward his neck, but a gloved hand grasps my wrist in an unyielding grip.

  �
�What if I can’t survive out here? Outside the compound?” His words are at odds with the calm, monotonous tone that carries not a trace of fear.

  “Is that what they told you?” I whisper.

  “I don’t remember … But I’ve never been outside the compound. Not without this.”

  Can that be true? If so, what sort of creatures are they?

  I drop my hand. “Well, okay, but I’m not sure if I can help you then.”

  Another silence. I wonder what he’s thinking. If he is thinking.

  “How do you know this will work?” he says finally.

  I lick my lips. “I don’t, not for sure. But someone told me it might.”

  “Someone?”

  I curse inwardly. Whatever Giles had to do the Metz, it’s pretty clear he is hiding from them.

  “Look, I’m not even sure that I can take it off. But I could try? And if at any point you want me to stop, then just say so.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t.” I gaze up at the expressionless mask. “You can either choose to trust me, or not.”

  I glance back over my shoulder. How long until the others come back? I don’t think Rogue will hurt me, not now, but I doubt he’ll stop the others if they identify me. I’m still a wanted criminal, after all. I shift my feet, rustling the litter underfoot.

  “Fine. You try.”

  I reach up again, then realize the next problem. Rogue must be over seven feet tall and, at five-two, there’s no way I can get his helmet off easily. Looking around, I spot an overflowing trash can further up the alley and point to it. “I’ll need to stand on that.”

  Rogue takes a couple of steps backward until he’s standing next to the trash can. I grimace. Climbing on rubbish piles isn’t my kind of fun. There’s no telling what you may find. Gingerly I push down on the top and jump my legs up, so I’m kneeling on top of it.

  “Turn around.” I run my finger along the thin line that encircles his giant helmeted head, then rock back on my heels and bite my lip. “I’m going to get my knife out. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to see if there’s a catch inside.”

  He shifts warily but doesn’t protest.

  I draw the thin stiletto blade from my pocket and place the tip on the line at the back of his neck. But it’s too narrow even for the slim blade.

  Dammit. There must be a way in.

  Then I spot another line, going vertically up from the back of the neck. About two inches up, it widens slightly. I place the tip of my blade in the opening and insert it carefully. There’s a faint click.

  I hold my breath, then let it out in a rush when nothing happens. What were you expecting? “Hold still.”

  Clasping the helmet with both hands, I give it a tug. My hands, slick with sweat, slip on the smooth surface. It doesn’t budge.

  I try twisting it. The helmet moves fractionally to the left. This time, when I tug the helmet up, it comes free and, with an effort, I pull it up and over the officer’s head.

  The weight of the helmet throws me off balance and I lurch forward, crashing into Rogue’s hard, broad shoulders. Quickly I push myself back on top of the bin, clutching the helmet to my chest, panting. I blink and stare into the wide, fearful eyes of a man.

  Not a machine. A man.

  His head is on the large size, but I guess that’s in proportion to his body. Dark blue eyes flick from side to side, the pupils dilated. Brown hair cropped short. Strong jawline, straight nose. Just how you’d design a perfect man.

  His face begins to redden, and his cheeks puff out. My heart lurches. Maybe I was wrong. Can he breathe without the suit?

  But the expression of disgust on his face suggests something else. “You’re going to have to breathe at some point,” I say, laughing.

  The tension in the air eases. His breath comes out in a rush and his nose wrinkles as he breathes in and out.

  “Are you okay?” I ask cautiously.

  He looks around and then down as if checking all parts of his body are intact. “I-I think so. Does it always smell this bad?”

  His voice takes me aback. It’s gentle and smooth, rising and falling with his words. Normal. He takes a deep breath, which sends him into a coughing fit, and he bends over, spluttering.

  “Yes. It stinks, but you get used to it after a while.”

  “It looks different.” He leans forward to peer at my face and I shrink back reflexively. “You look different.”

  I tense. “What do you mean?”

  He pulls back. “Everything is grey.”

  I turn the helmet over in my arms and peer inside. There isn’t much to see. It’s lightly padded and moulded to the shape of his head. There’s a section of brushed metal where the base of his head would rest, and I wonder if that’s something to do with the chip in his head. I lift the helmet up over my head and look out through the visor.

  “It looks just the same to me.”

  They are my words but in the gravelly voice of the Metz.

  My hands slip and the helmet crashes down onto my shoulders. I push it up, clawing at the slick material, but it won’t move. I can’t breathe. Get it off!

  Robotic fingers push mine aside and the helmet pops up over my head, leaving me gasping and sucking in air.

  “The helmet changes your voice. That’s why you all sound the same,” I say eventually.

  “Yes. When we are out here, we are not individuals. We are one entity.”

  I stare into his eyes. They look … normal. Friendly even. “Who are you?”

  A faint crease appears on his perfectly smooth forehead. “What do you mean?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “ML486.”

  I roll my eyes. “No, not your number. Your name.”

  He looks confused.

  I sigh. “I’m Aleesha. You know that. That’s my name. What’s yours?”

  “I don’t have a name. ML486 – that’s my name.” The tremble in his voice betrays his uncertainty.

  “You must have had a name once? And a family?”

  “The Metz are our family.” He lifts the helmet and peers into it, as if might hold the answers to my questions.

  “You don’t remember anything of your life before you were in the Metz?”

  “Our life is the Metz. The Metz are our life. Upholding the law is our privilege.”

  A snort explodes from my mouth and I hastily wipe my sleeve over my lips. He’s brainwashed. The lot of them must be completely brainwashed.

  Rogue frowns. “What’s wrong?”

  “Um, nothing. Look, I can’t call you ML486. It feels wrong. I’m going to call you Rogue, okay?”

  “Rogue.” He tests the name out. “Why?”

  I shrug. “Because you’re different. Not like the others. A—” I check myself. A rebel. I have a feeling that if I mention that particular word, the helmet will be slammed back down again and Rogue will turn back into officer ML486.

  “So, what do you do when you’re not out murdering people on the streets?”

  He scowls. “We do not murder people. We are law-keepers, not criminals.”

  Right, so if we kill, we’re murderers. If you kill, it’s upholding the law.

  I jump down from the trash can and brush myself down, stamping my feet unnecessarily hard on the ground to shake off some imaginary dust. Don’t rise to it.

  “Right, because a six-year-old girl is a criminal who deserves to die?”

  Oops.

  “What?” Rogue frowns.

  “What about the compound?” I change the subject. “What’s it like in there? What happens?”

  “In the compound? We sleep and eat and train.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What else is there to do?” The frown deepens. “You told me you could help me understand these feelings. These … emotions.”

  I hesitate. “Do you feel different without the helmet on?”

  He nods. “I feel … confused? I don’t know w
hat I’m supposed to do.” He looks down at the helmet again. “It’s uncomfortable.”

  I try a different tactic. “When you get back into the compound and take your suit off, do you remember what happened outside?”

  “Not usually.” He looks wary. “We’re not supposed to remember. But sometimes, recently …” His voice trails off. “Since I started having these feelings, I remember more. Is there something wrong with me?”

  “Not something wrong, something right.” He looks puzzled. I take a deep breath. “What you’re feeling, this is normal. What normal people feel. Look, can you remember what happened the day you first saw me? With the children? Tell me what you remember.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Only a few days.” I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

  Rogue’s eyes glaze over as he stares into the distance. “We were on a routine patrol when we were called to deal with a disturbance. Criminals fighting each other. We managed to apprehend the individuals involved and were leaving when my scanner picked up a wanted individual. You. I followed you into an alleyway. There were some children …”

  “The children. What did they look like to you?”

  “I don’t remember. They were children.” He shrugs. “They were laughing, I think?”

  My stomach lurches and my shock must show on my face because Rogue gives me a puzzled look.

  “What?”

  “They weren’t laughing,” I say, fighting to control my voice. “They were crying.”

  “Crying?”

  “Crying. They were distraught because their mother was dying. Her body was on the floor next to them. And they were frightened. They were scared of you.”

  His eyes widen. “Of me? Why?”

  “Because you, or another officer, killed their mother,” I say carefully.

  “No. We do not kill.”

  His vehemence takes me aback. He really believes that.

  I take a deep breath and force myself to place a hand on his arm. His face is so young. So innocent. It’s hard to believe he’s a trained killer.

  “You know you said things look different without the helmet on? Well, maybe it makes what you remember different too? Maybe they don’t want you to remember what really happened.”