Anna heard her bound down the stairs.
She walked to one of the couches and sat down heavily. As she sunk into the thick padding, her legs gave up their battle to keep her upright and her left thigh began to twitch as the aches and pains from the last twenty-four hours began to register. She leaned over, resting her head on her forearms and took a deep breath. Anna couldn’t remember the last time she felt so tired. Even doubles at the warehouse, running up and down ladders and loading gear hadn’t left her this weary, she couldn’t remember what had—even wandering in the forest.
She took the pack gently off and spied in on the cygnets. Sure enough they seemed to have fallen asleep; they’d need to eat when they woke up. She’d have to find something, but not quite yet. She had at least a few moments to herself. Anna placed the bag on the floor and started to take off her boots. Thinking better of it, she moved closer to the edge of the couch and hung her feet over the edge as she stretched out. Her eyelids drifted closed.
Yelling woke her. Disoriented, she tried to remember where she lay. Wooden table, stone floor, leaves through the window. Not until she saw her sullied boots did it come back to her. The cygnets still slept in the bag next to the couch. Seife had not yet returned.
“That can’t be!” a woman’s voice yelled.
“Just listen, Della! Listen!” someone responded. Anna could hear other muffled voices. She walked over to the kitchen window and peered out. Down below, fifteen or so people stood in a loose group around a young girl. Seife stood next to the girl with her arm protectively around her shoulders. Anna couldn’t hear what the girl said, but judging from the group’s facial expressions it made them uneasy, especially the brunette who had taken Makisig aside earlier. Seife looked up and saw Anna in the window. She nodded slightly, acknowledging her and joined back in the discussion. A few minutes later Anna watched Seife walk back toward her house. She turned to the door as Seife entered.
“What is it?” Anna asked when she came back in.
“Here,” Seife said, motioning Anna outside. Anna joined her on the landing. A large metal tub waited at the foot of the stairs.
“It’s one of Makisig’s old planters. He says you can use it as long as you want.” Anna glanced back toward the city, uneasily.
“What’s happened?” Anna asked.
“The fires are spreading. The fire crews having trouble keeping up. And the electricity grid is still out.”
“Starlings,” Anna said.
“Perhaps not,” Seife said. “Not the grid anyway. Vera is just back from The Shallows. She is a Starling. Well, she’s from here, but she’s been gone for a while. She was following some guy. Anyway, she’s been running with them for months—and she says the electricity problems aren’t because of the Starlings. And even given what I have seen today, I have my doubts as well. The grid’s not the sort of thing you can firebomb with a homemade incend. If it were it would have been bombed a decade ago. I’ll bet you a full stick that the grid is designed to withstand the common threat. I should know; every department in the city thinks alike, really it’s all they’re allowed to do. Even the Arts Guild with their security teams trailing us. They always guard against the most common threat.”
“If the Starlings didn’t do it, who then?” Anna asked.
“I wish I knew,” Seife answered.
Anna nodded and walked back to the couch. She picked up the bag and joined Seife at the door.
The first group of people arrived while Anna and Seife sat next to the metal tub, watching the swans eat. Seife had brought some rolling beetles to supplement the last of the damselflies. She and Anna were deep in sleep-deprived discussion of which insect the cygnets would eat first. One of the swans gulped down a beetle struggling to move on the surface of the water.
“You see!” Seife said.
“Seife,” a male voice called from behind them. They turned to find Rene approaching with a bag of medical supplies draped across his shoulder. Anna couldn’t help noticing that the large red cross matched the shirt he wore.
“Little help? People are starting to trickle in from the city,” he said.
Anna and Seife stood.
“No,” Seife said. “You rest. I will return soon.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Anna said.
“As soon as I can, then.”
18
All night Eugenio had had no choice but to scurry through the dark. Already Leiodare was a changed place—not because of bugs or superbugs, but because the lightless streets made Eugenio’s home foreign and the people had begun to turn on one another. Besides The Spires, the only light came from small fires that the Starlings had set in the western half of the city.
In morning’s dim rays he saw thin plumes of smoke in the distance rising beyond the Gardens. The hidden birds of The Dire cried out openly. It was an eerie sound to be heard this close to the Center. He continued on, slowing as he moved onto more crowded streets.
Road blocks had risen in The Dire. Just a few blocks up, battalions clogged the streets as they tried to beat back a horde of rolling beetles that spilled forth like a slow and menacing lava flow. It wasn’t time for beetles to migrate, and broadcasts had reported the successful annihilation of their food source in this part of Leiodare, so this sudden surge meant that something had scared them into moving as one. Eugenio didn’t like the idea of trying to imagine what could make a million of anything run. And in the entomological nightmare that Leiodare could be, given the right circumstances of unbalance and overcorrection, the possibilities were unfortunately numerous.
For the tenth time, Eugenio wished that he had driven, but it looked like many of the roads had already been restricted to emergency vehicles only. Protocol dictated that the city evacuate tourists first. Present circumstances certainly qualified.
Ahead of him a coupe jetted up and over the traffic clogging the streets. The patrol officers at the corner of the road block immediately went to their vehicle, waiting for the coupe to hit open street. When it did and no one was beneath them, the officers hit their kill switch and every engine on the street died. The coupe abruptly plummeted the fifteen meters to the ground. Though cushioned by its emergency thrust and bags, the thing still wrecked when it hit and chunks of impact foam flew out of the windows. The people inside would be straining to free themselves from cushioning as the officers stood outside the trans, looking beleaguered and unamused.
As if by providence, an unoccupied taxi turned the corner and Eugenio ran for it. Once inside, he directed the driver to The Spires.
“I set the price,” the driver said, looking at him in the rearview mirror.
“Of course,” he replied smoothly to her.
She turned off the main avenue and onto a side street. People packed the side streets as well. Here, the rush seemed to have a vein of efficiency moving through its chaos. People and trans shared the space as they moved to the west, ostensibly to the Jackson Arch, the formal entrance gate of the city. Individuals dodged around families and the obvious couples, swinging their hand-held belongings around obstacles. A woman on a motorcycle gunned her engine trying to get around the few trans on the roadway.
The people carried big bags, Eugenio noticed—not the usual stylish back pouch or parachute of rigid cotton, not even the tasteful backpack squares that usually covered upper backs all over the city. These packs covered their wearers’ entire back down to the waist, and sometimes beyond. Ahead of the taxi, a young couple stepped off of the curb and almost into the path of the taxi. The driver swore under her breath.
Across the street, a building exploded. The force threw debris into the roadway, and the taxi’s proximity alarm went off. Having detected danger of damage, it shuttered itself, reinforced metal vanes flowing into place. Duocrete chunks thumped against the sides of the vehicle as Eugenio braced for further impact. His ears rang in the darkness. The interior light wasn’t working and so they endured the darkness until the thumping around them suddenly cut short. A ligh
t on the instrument panel lit up yellow, and the taxi went through its system’s check. The external camera light blazed red—it’d been taken offline. They’d have to open the shutters to see. The driver hit the retract button. The shutters sank back into their recesses, and she and Eugenio peered out in the murk.
Eugenio could only see the dust that filled the air. Around them, the sound of coughing slowly replaced the noise of gravel landing. They would have to wait for it to settle before they could safely move forward. When it cleared, they saw that most everyone appeared to be moving; directly in front of the destroyed building, a middle-aged man with a blue scarf lay with his head in the gutter. From the unnatural angle of his neck, it didn’t look like he had survived. As people scrambled to flee, what had been efficient turned frantic and broken. They drove grimly on.
The taxi driver stuck to the side streets as they entered the center of the city. The taxi separated from the long line of cars inching out of Leiodare. For a moment the taxi driver sat and watched the river of people surge away from them, then they continued on their way.
Nearer The Spires, the streets were quieter, emptier. The driver let him out a few doors down when a group of well-dressed businessman with frightened expressions appeared. They looked around spastically, with their briefcases held up in defense against some unseen danger.
On his way out, Eugenio had swiped her two week’s pay and felt it a bargain.
Out on the street, The Spires still stretched into the heavens, but the floating counters and seats now rested on the floor, ostensibly to save power Eugenio thought. Still the doorwoman stood behind the plexi, her uniform just as creased and conservative. She seemed to recognize him and walked to the entrance, almost as if she’d been waiting for him. She opened the door before he reached it.
“Mr. McClaren left this for you,” she said, holding out a palmlock key.
“Left this?” Eugenio asked.
“Yeah, even he left.” She walked out the door and toward the parking garage, not bothering to say goodbye.
When Eugenio stepped out of the elevator and through the anteroom of Mr. McClaren’s penthouse, the view was amazing, but the contents of a small case on the kitchen counter took Eugenio’s breath away. Inside he found the virtu rig that Mr. McClaren had promised, along with a wealth of files that detailed not just the transmission of the virus, but how the nanocells themselves triggered the disease to cause biocells to mutate and degrade.
With the evidence safely in hand, Eugenio strode over the plexi and looked out on the city. Just then the electricity in the surrounding blocks came back on, twinkling faintly in the chaos. He called Lucine and made plans to meet back up with her.
19
Rory nearly cried when he saw the Gardens. He hadn’t remembered them this way: the quiet radiating out from the trees as golden light fell through the leaves in patches, and the overwhelming orange and purple blossoms that were bunched in semi-circular banks of fragrant blooms that melded with the smell of earth. He could barely see at all now, but felt grateful for what he could. If there were birds moving in this landscape, it would look less like a painting, but Rory delighted in its otherworldliness, as if his fantasies had come alive. It could not have been so lovely when he lived amongst people. He barely remembered the Gardens at all, just a rush of green as the train sped past on a drunken night and not much else.
“You gonna puke or something?” the rude girl said.
If he felt any better he’d love to shut her up, but as it was Rory ignored her and took in the green, the scent of flowers on the breeze. He could look forever at the Gardens it seemed. They held his attention even more than the streets. He saw the debris of the people that had left, heard the errant shot or yell, but all of this didn’t darken his mood. Physically, he felt horrendous. The numbness was gradually being replaced by searing pain. Breathing became harder with each breath. Soon his legs might buckle and thirst plagued him. But still he felt amazed, reborn, rewarded. He stood outside, among people, touching them, and so no one could tell Rory that anyone anywhere was luckier than him.
“Let’s go back to the corner,” the rude girl said.
“Back to the corner?” Rory’s girl replied. She still wouldn’t tell him her name, not that he cared terribly at the moment. Apparently Starlings, like virtuosos, hid their identities.
“Or out to The Shallows. Have a drink or a smoke,” she offered.
“Or to Dannel’s for some new handhelds,” one of the little ones said.
“—And digis,” the tall boy said.
“Yeah, we’ve not looted nearly enough,” someone else added.
“It’s fucking boring after a while,” Rory’s girl said.
Rory took in the details of the deserted block next to the Gardens. Further down he saw droves of people walking west. He and the Starlings had been moving that direction but had split from the crowd at the Gardens.
“A fine day out for Rory of Yore,” he said quietly.
“As I said, he’s babbling now,” rude girl said.
He wished that the girl could meet a virtuoso. Peru could show her what a proper smart-ass sounded like. She was the only person he wished to see on his great adventure, but still no answer. He didn’t imagine she’d be the sort to abandon ship over the likes of some birds, or even the riots, but perhaps she too had left for fear of getting trapped here, or doing without the finer amenities. After a dozen years of linking into her reals, he didn’t really know her well enough to say.
By that afternoon, Rory couldn’t open his eyes anymore. They’d swollen completely shut. He had to rely solely on sounds to take in the world. The tall boy had helped him adjust his hearing aids. He could hear their voices, but they seemed to be coming from a great distance. Talking also now seemed out of the question. Thankfully he could still drink. Rory’s girl, though he started calling her Josette in his mind, had fashioned a straw contraption to go past his swollen tongue and straight to his throat. Rory choked as the water ran down his windpipe, but it quenched his parched throat.
They sat, he thought, at a bar. He could smell liquor and the remnants of smoke; he definitely remembered the sound of breaking glass before two of the Starlings helped him through the door.
He thought they should probably try to call for a medical unit and leave him here. Unfortunately Rory had thought of this only after talking became an insurmountable obstacle. And just at this moment he didn’t care; though he might want to pass off his valuables to Josette just in case. For the moment, he sat in the steadily warmer room, listening hungrily to everything around him.
“A/C’s kicked,” someone said.
Rory’s girl replied, “A/C’s about kicked everywhere. We’ll have to go lower.”
“Or into the water,” someone else replied.
This caught his attention. Once, he’d nearly fallen into the water just outside the Shallows train station. He’d been trying to illegally procure a special purple globe for one of his nieces; when he lost his footing, Rory found himself hanging on to the handrail. Not that he had been in any danger of drowning. The water in The Shallows had earned its name. But it could have very well been a social death of sorts—for most people.
Hanging there, he’d already thought of a new line or two to incorporate this into his seduction repertoire. He’d seen the look of fear and excitement on his niece’s face and so Rory let go of the handrail, crashing into the water in the most acrobatic display he could improvise, splashing and flopping along the surface of the water. Thoroughly soaked, he leapt back up to the thoroughfare with the purple globe in hand, pinwheeling his arms and sending arcs of water streaming just in front of her. She squealed with delight and Rory basked in the beam of her smile.
Josette. If his mouth had worked, that’s what he would have said: Josette, and Lisette. They would have been thirty and thirty-six. Perhaps married. Perhaps with their own children. Surely he would have been invited over
for dinner, Rory thought.
“—downstairs. There’s a wine cellar. We can rest down there until the A/C comes back online,” Rory’s girl said.
“Or the sun goes down,” one of the boys replied.
Rory could feel the darkness as they descended down the stairs. It felt cool and moist and comforting; their steps echoed on the stone stairs underfoot, and as he moved the air seemed to slow and crystallize. Josette and the tall boy held him up as they came to rest at the bottom of the stairs, one under each arm.
In the time it must have taken their pupils to dilate, to drink in the darkness and wait for vision to emerge from it, Rory exhaled a last small breath, Josette’s name on his lips.
20
Seife had said something, but Anna hadn’t quite heard it. Noises from the city reached into Seife’s home intermittently: an occasional yell, sirens, and others that Anna couldn’t identify that made her most uneasy of all. With a conscious effort, Anna tore her attention away.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” Anna asked.
“Why did you want the birds?” Seife repeated.
“I didn’t—necessarily. I was just thinking of someone and it made me remember the birds,” Anna answered.
“Who was this someone?” Seife asked.
Anna didn’t respond.
“Too soon?” Seife asked.
“No,” Anna said quickly. “It was years ago. And complicated.”
“Too soon for us, I meant,” Seife said.
“Oh, I don’t know. . .”
“So you called one of those services? Is it true they have a cart where you can pick one out?” Seife asked.
“I didn’t smuggle them or buy them in The Dire,” Anna said.
Anna steeled herself and plunged ahead. “I made them.”
It was clear from Seife’s blank expression that she didn’t believe her.
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