by Lyga, Barry
Bracing against the wall, she paused for a moment, gathering her wits and her strength. Literally and figuratively, she did not know her next step. Was it safe for her in Ludo now that Jaron was dead? Now that Rose was exposed? Would Rose tell the DeeCees that she’d helped him? Should she still run? Forget about Rose and run?
She touched her pendant. Ha. Forget him? Right. Every time she touched the pendant now, she would think of him.
But what do I do right now?
A babble of overlapping voices assaulted her.
“—killed him!”
“They told me that—”
“I always knew that there was something—”
“—earlier curfew from now—”
She closed her eyes against it, but she couldn’t close her ears.
“Just gross. Squeezed.”
“—did you see—”
“There was blood on the sheets—”
“—bet he was shredded—”
“Brutal, man.”
“—slaughter.”
Her pendant offered no respite, no refuge. She dug the nails of one hand into the tender flesh of her other lower arm. The shock of pain snapped her eyes open, and Lissa stood before her, as though conjured.
“Lissa,” she whispered, and without thinking she hugged her tightly. “Lissa…”
So many things she wanted to say. The moment cramped with them; they collided against each other and caromed off to places where she could not follow before ricocheting back too quickly to be spoken. Instead, they just clutched each other, submerged in the thrum of bloody talk on the factory floor, keeping each other’s chins above the waterline.
“He’s really gone, isn’t he?” Lissa said.
“Yes.”
A pause. A strain.
Lissa put her lips directly on Deedra’s ear and whispered so softly that Deedra could barely hear her:
“Good.”
Deedra scanned the area around her. She half-expected TI Markard to show up and arrest Lissa for sedition and Deedra for conspiring.
How could Lissa actually be happy that Jaron was dead? Sure, he was the boss and the son of the Magistrate. And he threw his weight around with or without the Bang Boys, but to wish him dead… Deedra had her own reasons for being relieved, but Lissa was just being cruel for no reason.
“Be careful what you—” Deedra started and never finished because just then a door up above exploded open with such force that those nearby screamed, a wave of terrified falsettos rippling out from the epicenter. The door hung off its jamb, held by a single hinge, and before Deedra could process what was happening, Rose flung himself through, his green coat flapping behind him, his body a blur of motion.
He moved like a darting insect, his lithe form skipping around stunned, frozen workers. He was airborne, almost dancing along the crowd, touching down lightly and just long enough to push himself up again, racing along the open air above the throng. So swift was he that no one had time to react until he had already pushed off and moved on, scrambling down the stairs to the main floor with such speed that the space in his wake became a bustle of too-late pushes. Deedra and Lissa jumped out of the way as he blew past them.
“How is he doing that?” Lissa’s voice was still at a whisper, but a louder one. She disentangled herself from Deedra and stared, agog, at Rose.
Before Deedra could answer—and what would she say, anyway?—a cluster of DeeCees trampled after him, with TI Markard at its center. “Stop him!” Markard screamed over the noise. “Bring him down!”
Rose scampered over the tops of the workers, now grabbing a light fixture overhead and swinging himself farther along. He had only a few more feet to go, and then he’d have clear floor and—Deedra checked behind herself—one more door to get through before he could make it outside.
Once he was outside, she knew, nothing could hold him.
But the door behind her opened, and more DeeCees were there. More DeeCees than she’d ever seen in her life, even during the riots.
Rose didn’t stop. He hurled himself to one side and bounced off a wall, sending himself hurtling in the opposite direction so quickly that by the time the DeeCees lunged at his old position, he was already on the other side of the room.
“Stop that kid!” Markard yelled from halfway down the staircase. “Permission to open fire!”
Deedra locked eyes with Lissa. Her friend was trembling in fear. They couldn’t have possibly heard him say that. Not inside. With everyone here—
The first burst of gunfire cut the chatter to nil, and there was a moment of perfect silence before the guns spoke again and the screams started. The open factory floor became too crowded with panic and the brrt-brrt of machine guns as Rose somersaulted in midair and landed on the floor three feet from Deedra. For an instant, their eyes met, and then Rose leaped straight up. Bullets pocked the floor where he’d been less than a second earlier, kicking up dust and fragments of concrete.
Deedra realized she was screaming. But everyone was screaming. Bullets whined and kicked and sizzled in the air. Rose was a greenish blur, launching himself from floor to ceiling, zipping back and forth in a zigzag, headed for the door.
Deedra grabbed Lissa’s arm; her friend wasn’t screaming, she was standing frozen. The crowd had split, half running away from them, half toward them, everyone in a panic. Lissa would be trampled. A forceful tug did nothing; Lissa was rooted to the spot. A hard slap to the face snapped her out of it, and the two of them ducked to the side and behind a section of conveyor belt just as several DeeCees opened fire.
From her vantage point, Deedra could barely make out Rose as he raced from side to side, trying to reach the door. But there were always more DeeCees coming through, fighting against the wave of workers trying to push out, and he was soon in the middle of the factory, dodging as bullets spun and whirled around him.
Even though it was impossible, Deedra imagined she could see it in him: the moment of decision. The DeeCees were firing indiscriminately, not caring that innocents were stampeding into the line of fire. Rose had been able to keep the bullets concentrated on him at first, but now the usually open space in the factory was too crowded and chaotic—there was nowhere to run, jump, or dodge that wouldn’t put someone else in harm’s way. Nowhere for him to step out of the path of a bullet without that bullet hitting someone else.
He stopped. Stopped dead. He was panting. She could only imagine what this was doing to him.
“Stop shooting!” he shouted, raising his hands above his head. “You’re going to hurt someone!”
In that instant, she knew: Rose had not killed Jaron Ludo.
With the cessation of the gunfire, the screams and footfalls of panicked workers resonated louder. They pushed and shoved at one another and at the DeeCees, trying to run away, anywhere. The DeeCees, with methodical precision, pressed through the crowd, tightening the circle around Rose, who knew that if he moved, they would open fire again.
Finally, they surrounded him, rifles mere inches from his body. The slightest move…
Even Rose wasn’t that fast.
“Deedra?” Lissa said. Deedra ignored her, sickly fascinated by what was happening. Some part of her longed for Rose to whip his tendrils around, to knock the guns from their hands, to escape.…
But the expression on his face said it all. He wouldn’t risk it.
Her cheeks went hot with shame. She’d believed the worst about him. But she knew now that he hadn’t killed Jaron, wouldn’t have killed Jaron, even though he easily could have.
Have you killed?
Many, many times.
Yes, he’d said that.
I don’t make that distinction.
He’d said that, too.
But she had forgotten until that moment his very next words:
Everything that lives matters.
And that, too, was what he’d said.
Everything that lives matters.
She watched with tears in her eyes as they
shoved him down to his knees, more roughly than was necessary, then pushed him even more harshly onto his stomach. Shackled his wrists behind him.
“His ankles, too,” Markard said, pushing through to the center. “No chances.”
With his arms and legs bound, he was helpless.
Markard nodded to one of the DeeCees. The man raised his rifle, and Deedra bit a knuckle to keep from crying out as he brought the butt down on Rose’s head—hard enough to hear even where she crouched.
Rose lay there, completely still.
“Nice,” said Markard.
“Hey, Deedra?”
From behind her, Lissa’s voice had taken on a high, dreamlike quality, wavering and indistinct. Deedra turned around, and Lissa said, “I don’t think this is good,” in that same queer tone.
This was the swath of blood spilled like a lake along her left flank.
“Told you you’d get me killed some… day…”
Before Deedra could react—before she could even blink—Lissa’s eyes rolled up in her head and she collapsed.
CHAPTER 25
HERO COPS NAB LUDO MURDERER! read the headlink. The story itself was more of the same, with no mention whatsoever of the local police and the DeeCees opening fire in the confines of L-Twelve. No mention of the paramedics who’d rushed to Lissa’s side—eventually—and then carted her off to MedFac without so much as a word to Deedra, who’d kept her alive until they’d arrived by pressing her rolled-up poncho against the wound.
She was tempted to edit at least one of the wikis to include this information, but she’d forgotten how. Editing the wikis seemed like a waste of time, so she hadn’t done it in forever. As kids, they’d all done it, logging in to change some important news story to include a definition of flatulence or a link to the entry for penis. It had been giggle-inducing funny back then, but the skill set just never seemed important enough to maintain.
It wouldn’t matter anyway. Others would reedit it however they wanted. In fact, maybe someone already had. Maybe the wikis originally got it right, and someone had changed it. And maybe the person who’d done so thought the adjustments made the story more true.
With so many truths flying around, who could tell what was actually true?
A boy named “Rose,” the news feed went on, is being held in Ludo SecFac until he can be transferred to City SecFac for processing and trial. He is accused of top murder and spying.
She did not remember going home; she could only remember leaving L-Twelve and then a blank of time and then her home.
Still in shock, she was in no condition to flee the Territory now. Especially since TI Markard had warned her against doing so. She paced her apartment. After the gunfire and Rose’s arrest and Lissa’s being hauled away on a stretcher, an early curfew had been imposed. Lissa might not live and Rose…
Rose was an accused murderer.
She weighed the idea, hefting it, testing its contours and density. Two questions—and only two—mattered at this point. One: Had Rose done it? And two: Did she care?
The answer to the first question was no. She knew it. Could she prove it? Not a chance. The vine-like tendrils at the murder scene. Plus, Rose had recovered the pendant, which Jaron had stolen. Too many coincidences piled one atop the other. At some point, all those coincidences got tamped down and fused by the pressure of logic into a nugget of pure evidence. Who else could have committed the crime?
Although, given Jaron’s belligerence and hatred of Rose, it was entirely possible—likely, even—that Rose had gone to Jaron’s apartment to ask for the pendant back, been attacked, and defended himself so effectively that Jaron ended up dead.
Leaning back to think, Deedra swept her hair over her shoulder, touching her scar as she did so. Its pebbly, rough texture felt unfamiliar. She realized she hadn’t been touching it as often as usual. Whole days sometimes went by now when she didn’t think about it or probe its hard, nigh-insensate topography.
The second question: Did she care?
It was just Jaron, after all. Jaron, who’d been a distant threat at L-Twelve, then pretended to be a friend before showing his true colors. Who cared if he was dead?
So now you get to decide who lives and dies, Deedra? Is that it?
Everything that lives matters.
Rose was right: It was simple. And it was also so, so complicated.
She groaned and rubbed her hands down her face. She didn’t want to have these questions taking up space in her mind. When she’d met Rose, her world had changed in many ways, some small and subtle, some large. For the first time in her life, she’d felt wanted and needed, content. Nothing had changed in the world—the food was still too little and barely edible, the air still thick with alternating days of humidity and smog, the clouds still ever present, and the Territory still ugly. But for days and weeks, something had grown in her and near her, and for one magical night, she’d felt as though she’d brushed up against something pure and beautiful and true.
Now it was gone.
It was gone, and all that replaced it was an inchoate, unformed anger. She imagined Rose confined to a tiny cell in SecFac. That wouldn’t do. She pictured herself attacking SecFac, guns blazing, mowing down row after row of DeeCees.…
Instead of making her feel better, the image only made her feel worse. It was an impossibility atop an absurdity. She didn’t even know where to get a gun. She didn’t even know how to fire a gun.
She snarled and kicked out at her backpack, lying on the floor. It thunked too heavily.
Oh, wait…
The thing. The thing that Rose had given her. The book.
She rummaged under her poncho until she had it in her hands. It was heavy and solid and so old. Where had he found such a thing? And what was the point? Opening it, she was confronted with its running stream of text, broken up by the necessity of turning over each sheet of paper to find more. It was crazy. The book looked to contain maybe a few hundred sheets of paper, each with a limited amount of text. So thick and heavy for so little information.
There was no way to jump from one bit of text to another. No way to check the meaning of a word. No way to change the size of the text.
Really: What was the point?
Still, Rose had had it. And he’d given it to her. And he was gone.
He must have had some reason for giving it to me. Right? He said he needed me to have it. Why?
She settled into bed with the book. One way or another, she would figure this out.
CHAPTER 26
Top Inspector Markard waited patiently in the Magistrate’s outer office. His career was about to skyrocket. Apprehending the murderer of the Magistrate’s only son? Doing so after a dramatic firefight? Markard would be promoted to superior inspector in no time, he knew.
He glanced around the outer office. Yes. Superior Inspector Markard. With all the perks that came with such a position. Bigger monthly rations. Maybe nothing as swank as the Magistrate’s digs, with its wall coverings and carpet. Carpet! Every place Markard had ever lived either had rough concrete floors or old, broken wood. Without shoes, you’d either tear up your feet or end up pincushioned by splinters. The idea of being able to take off his shoes in his own home seemed divine.
“Send him in!” a voice bellowed from within.
An assistant flicked a hand at the door without so much as a glance at Markard.
Markard wiped his palms on his pants and stood up. He’d never met the Magistrate before. He wondered if his tie was straight.
Cool air blasted him as he entered the inner office, and he shivered. Air-conditioning. It tasted chemical, but the coolness was welcome. And—he realized—the aridity. The air did not hold the ever-present sag of moisture he’d become so used to.
“Close the damn door!” the Magistrate barked. He stood behind his desk, fidgeting with a stylus, tapping it without rhythm.
Markard shut the door. The inner office was carpeted, too, of course, with only three or four threadbare spots h
e could see. It must have cost a fortune. Tapestries hung from the walls, their ends only a little bit frayed. Only one of them was stained that Markard could notice.
A sofa sat against one wall, and a desk was at the far wall, positioned under the seal of Ludo Territory, a bas-relief of a dolphin in midleap. The same creature as in the brand on his neck. Markard couldn’t remember if dolphins were made up or if they were extinct, but either way, there weren’t any around, so it didn’t matter. The motto of the Territory—Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?—encircled the dolphin. Markard stood stock-still at the door, taking it all in. The desk was the size of the bed he shared with his wife. He’d heard of the splendor of the Magistrate, but never thought he’d witness it.
Hands clasped before him, he stood before the Magistrate’s desk as the man himself eased into his chair. Markard tried not to goggle as the chair actually moved, tilting slightly backward on its own. Amazing.
“You’re the one who caught the killer?”
It had been a group effort, really. Entire platoons of local peace militia and DeeCees had swarmed the Territory and quickly narrowed the possibilities to the facility in question. Ten teams of inspectors and DeeCees had worked in a blitz of interrogations, getting to the workers before they could collude and change stories. It had been pure dumb luck that Markard had been the one to get Rose.
But dumb luck didn’t get promotions. “Yes, Magistrate.”
“This goddamn place!” Ludo slapped a hand on his desk. “You have any idea what I do for you people, Markard? Any idea the crap I have to put up with from the nationals, from the DeeCee bureaucracy? And someone murders my kid? That’s the thanks I get?”
“If it’s any consolation, Magistrate, the killer isn’t a local or a native. We believe he came in from Sendar. We’re still investigating.”
Ludo’s eyes narrowed until they were tiny gray-black beads set far back in his face. “Not Dalcord? Are you sure?”
“Anything’s possible, I suppose. But all our information indicates—”
“Well, damn. If it was Dalcord, this wouldn’t have been a complete waste. Would have given us pretext to go after them. Dalcord’s been agitating for years.”