Spellhacker

by M. K. England

  You: Hey! You don’t get to talk to me that way!

  Davon: Please, I changed your diapers, held your hair when you got drunk the first time, and bought you tissues and pizza when the girl whose name we do not speak broke up with you.

  You: I never cried!

  Davon: The tissues were a gesture. The point is, I’ve earned the right to tease you.

  You: Whatever you say, Annoying Helicopter McWorryface

  Davon: Just let me know. Tomorrow night, okay?

  You: Tomorrow night.

  And thanks for the gift. It was

  . . . a lot

  Davon: You’re welcome. Always.

  I make my messaging status “unavailable” before he can start in again. He’s right, he’s been there for me forever, has known me longer than even Remi and Jaesin. He held my hand at the pickup zone for school when I was in my first year and terrified and he was already in fifth grade. He knew my parents, before the plague. He took apart decks with me and taught me to hack video games.

  And he’s all I’ll have, come next week.

  Behind me, the roof access hatch clicks, and I internally sigh. If it’s one of those jerks from the fifth floor up here to smoke and throw stuff off the roof, I swear I’ll . . .

  But it isn’t. It’s Remi.

  My heart rate picks up as I look them over, checking for any signs of distress. Symptoms keeping them awake again? They smile, though, as they slide down beside me with their back against the building’s cooling unit, a single gossamer strand of maz dangling between their fingers. They stick their bare feet straight out in front of them and keep their gaze on the maz, spinning that one thread into a more robust string that folds and twines in around itself. The golden glow of it—some of our stolen sunnaz mixed with something else—illuminates the pillow creases on their face and the dark circles under their eyes.

  With a motion too complicated for my eyes to follow, Remi suddenly folds the whole weave in half, does something while it’s cupped in their hands, then crushes it. The spell explodes into a dazzling cloud of tiny stars that rush toward me, fly a lap around my head, and settle into my hair. They tickle where they rest on the close-shaved side of my head, and a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I pick one of the stars from a lock of hair hanging near my face and pinch it between two fingers, then crush it and sprinkle the sparkling residue over Remi’s head.

  “There, now we match,” I say, watching the glittering dust settle on their cheeks and the tips of their ears. Their whole face glows warm. Touching maz like this would have majorly freaked me out a few years ago. Remi has helped me get used to it.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting your beauty sleep for our job tomorrow?” they say, their voice pitched low, for my ears only.

  “Shouldn’t you?” I reply automatically, suppressing a wince at the reflexive snap in my voice.

  “Touché. I’m just surprised you’re not hacking into the dating profiles of Kyrkarta’s head of police or something. Isn’t that your usual insomniac boredom killer?”

  I shrug, blinking the deck interface out of my contacts altogether so my vision holds nothing but city and sparkling cheeks. “I ran out of interesting people. There are no mysteries anymore. Tragic.”

  “You’ll have to start in on the politicians of other cities, I guess. Bring a little spark back into your relationship with the internet.”

  I let the hint slide right on by. I can do that just as well here. No need to follow them to Jattapore to dig up their new landlord’s sick tastes and secret hobbies. Besides, if this job goes well, in a day or two they’ll be formally enrolling at KyrU and staying in mystery-free Kyrkarta with me anyway. I watch as they draw a new strand of maz from the necklace I made them last summer. It’s constructed from five concentric circles of fine metallic tubing that act as maz chambers, letting Remi carry a bit of maz wherever they go. I gave it to them for their seventeenth birthday, almost a year ago. The look on their face when they opened the package and heard my explanation, the way our eyes caught and held . . .

  My stomach tightens, and I cut my gaze back out to the lights of the city.

  “What are you doing up, anyway?” I ask.

  They shrug. “I slept too much after the clinic. Wide awake now. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine to do the job tomorrow.”

  I breathe long and slow through my nose.

  “Good,” I reply, as if that’s my only concern.

  Their mouth twists into an odd shape, then smooths back to blank. They coax another strand of sunnaz from the innermost ring of their necklace and twine it around their pointer finger, then weave in the barest trace of motaz from another ring. Making something animated then, able to move on its own. Remi’s specialty. They work silently for several minutes, spinning the maz into a complex tangle of light until, with one taut pull of a thread, the whole thing shifts from strings of light to solid form. A tiny, palm-sized golden bunny.

  The bunny hops from their hand up their arm, onto their shoulder, pauses, then leaps straight at my face. It smacks me in the nose with its little rabbit feet, bracing against my face for the jump back to Remi, where it finally nestles into their tousled bedhead. I reach a finger up to pet its tiny glowing ears, catching a few strands of Remi’s hair in the process. It’s soft, so dark it’s almost black, with just a bit of wavy wildness to it, a total contrast to the tame, golden bunny. My gaze slides from their hair to their eyes. And there we pause, suspended in time, under the stars and the neon of our city, locked in connection. The air becomes heavy.

  I snatch my hand back and let my gaze fall to my lap.

  I feel more than hear Remi’s sigh where their shoulder presses against mine. They lift the tiny golden bunny from their hair and pull the maz strands apart, threading them back into the necklace.

  “Do you ever wonder what the people who hire us actually do with the maz?” they ask, voice flat as they start in on a darker, more complex spell. Something for our job tomorrow, probably.

  I shrug, and my shoulder brushes against theirs, warm and close. I shiver and scoot away as subtly as I can.

  “Not really. Probably not making vicious attack rabbits that want to kick me in the face, unlike some people. I imagine some are cooking up stims or weaving illegal spells, but . . . I think a lot of people just remember having free access to as much maz as they wanted, before the plague. They’re like you. They want to be able to live like they used to.”

  I pause and consider, tracing patterns in the stars with my eyes. “I don’t know, maybe that’s naive. The balance of innocent to illegal is probably worse than I think it is. And the people who are buying more maz for daily life aren’t the ones who have none. They’re the ones who miss the convenience and want to get around the rationing. It’s not like we’re maz-liberating heroes or anything. But we need the money for a good cause, right?” I ask, turning to look at them.

  They refuse to meet my eyes, instead putting the finishing touches on a deep blue-black spell, then placing it to one side to settle and fuse. It’ll be stronger tomorrow than it would be if we used it right away, the way the leftovers of a spicy dish are always more flavorful the next day. They stare at the spell for a long moment, then fold their hands in their lap and wiggle one foot back and forth.

  “I hate the idea of you all doing this really dangerous job just for me. So I can play with this new maz, if that’s really what it is. So I can go to the school I want. Maybe we should just call it—”

  “Stop,” I snap. Every muscle goes tense, going from bone-weary tired to thrumming with adrenaline and ready to hit something in a single second. “It’s not all about you, you know.”

  “I know that,” they say, matter-of-fact. I purse my lips and brace my hands on the ground to push to my feet, but Remi places one hand on my knee and just says, “Don’t.”

  My whole body goes warm. I don’t move. They close their eyes and take a breath, then forge on.

  “Do you want me to stay, Dizzy?”

&n
bsp; They open their eyes again, and the world falls out from under me. I’m pinned, my lungs and vocal cords frozen, my mind perfectly blank.

  Just say it, my brain screams as it comes back online. Stay, please stay, I can’t come with you, but I don’t want to be without you. Please stay.

  My body recoils at the thought.

  “You want you to stay” are the words that actually came out. “You want to go to Kyrkarta U.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” Their hand squeezes my leg, and they turn farther toward me, leaning closer.

  “Ask me to stay.”

  No, no, no. Pathetic, I’m pathetic, totally unable to form any words that might actually work for this situation. I don’t need them, I can live without them, can start my new job and get my own place, can survive while they abandon me for a new life in Jattapore. They’ll only end up leaving me eventually anyway. Them staying now would only delay the inevitable.

  I can’t do this.

  I can’t.

  Eventually Remi takes their hand away. They push to their feet and brush the dirt off the seat of their galaxy-print sleep pants.

  “Don’t stay up too late,” they say. Their fingers ghost over the shaved side of my head once, lingering, before they retreat.

  The door clicks shut behind them.

  “Don’t leave me,” I reply to the empty rooftop. It’s just about as likely.

  I drop my head into my hands, raining glowing stars from my hair down into the night.

  Eight

  THE CONVERSATION ON THE ROOFTOP feels like a hazy, half-remembered dream the next morning. Remi stands next to me on the train, deliberately not looking at me, but otherwise chattering away. They’re not acknowledging anything at all out of the ordinary. Probably for the best. This job will require us all to be our best, least-distracted selves.

  The four of us ride to the Montague Street Station together like Jaesin and I did yesterday morning. We laugh and mess around like normal, but the pull of adrenaline and anticipation gives every word and gesture a sharp edge. We’ve done this a hundred times, but something already feels off. Maybe it’s just me, though. This’ll be the closest we’ve ever gone to the station where my dad died. Not excited for that. It’ll also be our actual, seriously, not-even-lying-this-time final job ever. I’d like to think I got all the bitterness out of my system last time, but let’s be real. I am never out of bitterness.

  When we arrive, we split up and make our own individual ways to the park, stopping to browse as necessary to look natural. I arrive at the park last to find the others lying on the shady side of a hill facing away from the street, chatting quietly and passing a frothy purple tea between them. Remi’s face lights up with quiet laughter at something Jaesin says, and they collapse into Ania’s lap with their hands pressed over their face. Jaesin and Ania lock eyes for a moment and share a smile. The sight stops me dead for a long moment, the three of them there all together. Most people would see three friends hanging out, relaxing, enjoying the last few days before adulthood.

  I see the end of everything. I see the three people who matter most to me in the world together, without me, the way it’s always going to be. It’s a bitter taste.

  I command my lenses to take a picture: Remi reaching over to grab the cup from Jaesin, Ania’s expression long-suffering but fond, Jaesin outraged at the theft of the drink before he was done with it. I’ll probably be embarrassed later and delete the picture. For now, I save it and focus back on the task at hand.

  I pause next to one of the border trees and pull out the small concealment spell Remi made last night. The crystalline dust of it makes my hands itch as I crush it over my head, then pull out another spell for the access hatch. A minute for the spell to take full effect, then I walk straight up to the MMC access hatch, careful to move with calm, even strides. Any sudden movements or attention-grabbing sounds and people will see right through the obscuraz, no matter how good Remi’s weaving is.

  When I reach the maintenance hatch, I smear the second spell across the door, feeling the tiny snaps as its lattice structure crumbles. The door glimmers faintly for a few seconds as the maz takes effect. Any passing observer’s eyes should skip right over it. For now.

  Once the glimmer of the spell fades, I get to work on the lock. It’s both password and fingerprint locked, like most things are, and I spot a tiny camera in the top corner that’s likely for facial recognition. No problem. I run my custom intrusion program to sync my deck and the door’s system, and I’m in less than two minutes later. One hurdle down. If they’d changed up their security protocol, I’d have been here a lot longer, trying to develop a new workaround on the fly. But they haven’t—this is no different than any other job we’ve ever pulled.

  For a brief moment, I wonder if I’m breaking through code Davon has written himself. Guilt is useless, though. I’ve done this plenty of times before, and this is the last. When I accept the job at MMC—if I accept the job—maybe I’ll write some new security protocols for these tunnels, and get paid for it too.

  Ah, the irony.

  I’ve had a password cracker for MMC’s systems for years. Once I’m in, it’s routine to erase the last few minutes of my face on the camera, pull up one of the saved fingerprint-and-face combos in the MMC database, and feed them back into the system. Too easy. They really do need my help. I guess it’s a rare person who actually wants to enter a sewer voluntarily, though. Just me . . . and every other siphoner in the city. Come on, MMC. The door whirs, hums, then clicks open an inch.

  Victory.

  I turn as slowly and casually as I can and wait to catch Jaesin’s eye. He watches the area around me intently, squinting as if he’s trying to focus on something . . . then his face relaxes, and he gives the faintest of nods when he spots me, able to see through the spell since he knows exactly what he’s looking for. The others apply their own concealment spells, get up slowly and stretch, drink the last of their tea, and amble my way, tossing the cup into a trash processor along the way. I pull the hatch open for them, slow and calm, and hold it until all three of them have passed through.

  Once I slip in after them and pull the door quietly shut behind me, I climb down to the catwalk that runs above the river of underground sewage. The others wait with mischievous grins. We’re in it now. No point pretending they don’t love it as much as I do. Jaesin holds his hand up for a fist bump, which I happily oblige, part hell-yes-we-got-this and part thanks-for-not-ratting-me-out-yesterday. He hasn’t mentioned my earlier slipup about the job-offer issue, so I guess he took me at my word for once.

  “Any security?” I ask, and Jaesin shakes his head.

  “No sign on the usual patrol paths. We’re good to go. Remi,” he says, gesturing ahead of us. “Lead the way.”

  “You just want me to step in the poop first,” they whine, but take the lead anyway, practically skipping. In just a few minutes, we’ll know for sure if maz-15 is real, and their excitement is palpable. Sewers aren’t the best place for someone immunocompromised, but Remi always take precautions—a mask, rain boots, disposable gloves, a truly alarming amount of sanitizer once we leave, and a hot shower with decon chems when we get home. They run one gloved hand along the pipes above as they walk, sensing for the maz inside.

  “I think this is the one we want. Something’s weird,” they murmur, muffled by the mask, and follow the pipe deeper into the tunnels. Even after knowing them for almost ten years, Remi still amazes me. The fact that they can feel out which strains are running through the pipe when it’s all mixed together is amazing. And this is the last time I’ll get to see them at work, doing what they do best.

  I never knew it was possible to feel nostalgic for something that isn’t even over yet, but when Ania meets my gaze with a little twist of a smile, I know she feels the same.

  The smell intensifies as we draw farther and farther away from the fresher air near the entrance, until the air actually feels thick and heavy with the indescribable stench of rotting
waste. Scentaz is fairly rare and of limited use, so we never bother stealing any. We breathe through our mouths and creep along the narrow catwalks until we find what we need—a junction point with a small pressure release valve on one side, the same one we just tapped two days ago. That’s our cue, and we move like the practiced, efficient team we are.

  Jaesin and Ania break off and take up their respective positions. I swear half the reason Ania comes with us on these jobs is so she can try out the new shielding and warding techniques she likes to experiment with. She takes her time weaving protection for us in case of trouble, making it look like a graceful performance rather than a practical safeguard. Jaesin begins his circuit, walking the perimeter of the wide platform and a few feet down each connecting tunnel, listening for incoming guards and keeping watch for any other surprises.

  Remi and I get to work on the pipe itself. The security on the access hatch was nothing, but this ice is always much harder to crack. Unlike the other night, my attempt at a wireless connection is denied almost instantly, so I put my bag down and dig for a screwdriver. “Gonna hardwire in. Let me know if the world burns down.”

  Because honestly, when I’m eyeballs deep in code, I wouldn’t even notice.

  Jaesin and Ania murmur their affirmatives without any particular concern, but Remi frowns, pressing both hands to the pipe they’ve identified.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, fitting the screwdriver into a groove and prying the access panel off. The junction box looks new, and much more modern than the others we’ve worked with in the past. Maybe they did update their security after all. Not good.

  “Yeah,” Remi says, distracted. “Fine. Go ahead.”

  Super convincing there, but what can I do? I have no idea what it’s like or what it means when Remi’s maz senses are tingling. That’s their deal.

  I snip and strip a few wires, my hands absolutely steady, then pull out my magnifying goggles and a small soldering iron. The faint tinny burning smell of the heated iron is a welcome cover for the sewage and rot, but my wrist aches with the effort of the tiny movements required. Adrenaline and my racing heart make me hyper-focused, though, as I process every minuscule thread of each wire, the solder needed to coat them. Once I’ve established a few temporary contact points for the cables I brought, I pull up the goggles and set them on my forehead, blinking a few times to readjust. Game time.