Brave New Love (20 page)

The van’s brakes screeched as it came to a sudden stop, jerking Allard, tugging his left arm and sending fresh pain through his side. Drops of sweat beaded on his forehead, in his armpits,
ran down his back and made his dress shirt stick like a layer of skin, not cotton. He’d lost one shoe when they took him.

The harsh voices of his captors, a press gang that chuckled and sneered around words spoken with an accent that suggested they did not belong to a world of villas and clerks, perhaps not even
crowded cities, eclipsed the sickening patriotic hymns. Had they reached their destination? Allard had no grasp what the Front Line was—an actual boundary, a barrier? What or who was on the
other side? No vid or instructor would offer information, suggest any clue. No official would tell. When asked, his father had gone silent and his mother had muttered, “The enemy of the
State,” and asked him to read her latest verses, concerned they sounded too metallic.

Why did he let his hormones cloud his judgment last night? Why did lying to his parents about studies after dinner, slipping out of the villa, boarding the speed rail into the city, making his
way to the Workers’ district and breaking curfew to see Kyet, merit this fate? He should be waking up in his soft bed. His stomach grumbled. His father’s position ensured three good
meals a day. Breakfast was the best, with fresh fruit, a hecto of meat, and even pure honey on light bread.

He hoped that whatever militsiya in charge at the Front Line would be reasonable. They would check his ID, permit a vid-call home and all would be well. Yes, there would be punishment, but
Allard would gladly endure it to avoid whatever else might be awaiting him when they released him from the van.

Footsteps sounded just outside the van’s rear doors. The spider paused, and then crawled back to its hiding space a moment before the doors opened.

Allard blinked at the daylight. Behind the men, he glimpsed an empty landscape surrounding a cracked ribbon of asphalt that stretched all the way to the distant horizon. Nothing but barren land
crowded the road. No farmland, no vegetation. Just loose dirt caught in the breeze.

Two of the three men carried an injured boy in their arms. They tossed him into the van, near Allard’s feet, as if they were throwing in a bag of garbage.

“I don’t belong here,” Allard shouted at them.

The nearest man slapped him hard across the face but the sting faded when they unlocked the manacle from the wall of the van. A brief burst of hope rose in Allard—they were going to set
him free, even if it were in some forsaken wilderness—until the second man, who had a thick unkempt mustache, lifted the fallen boy’s right arm and snapped the manacle around the
wrist.

“Here’s some dead weight for you,” he told Allard. His breath stank of the spices the State’s commissary used to hide the cheapest cuts of dog meat. At least, that was
what Allard’s mother would say.

But she was a liar. He had proof in his pocket.

The boy at his feet wasn’t dead—Allard could see his chest rise and fall beneath the grimy overalls that marked him as a Worker. Not that Allard was biased; Kyet might never become a
Citizen, but he could steal your breath with his looks. This boy also had a handsome, dark-skinned face, though it was marred by the dripping gore from the bloody cut at his temple.

Maybe Allard preferred boys who would never read poetry. Perhaps that was betraying the State. His parents would rather he pursue engineers at the university.

He nudged the boy with his foot. The boy stirred.

•  •  •

Tetch woke to nausea layered over a massive headache, worse than any hangover he’d ever had—when had he swallowed a live rat and how could it be scratching at the
inside of his skull? He tried to press a couple of fingers against his throbbing temples and felt a drag, a constraint on his right arm. He pulled harder and heard someone yell in the surrounding
darkness.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Tetch spat as he sat up. It was either that or retch, which felt tempting, but he doubted it would help soothe his head. Hot metal lay beneath him. Moving metal, based on
the vibration. He had trouble opening his eyes. Blood that had seeped down his scalp glued them shut. He was in a vehicle. How?

“We’re shackled together.”

Tetch opened his eyes and looked up at the boy sitting inches away. Young. Privileged. Clothes a bit dirty. They both must have been picked up by the militsiya for breaking curfew. Though the
boy wasn’t bad looking, Tetch thought he was too soft—he even wore glasses, a social affectation since the State promised every Citizen good eyes for life.

Tetch lifted up his left hand and saw the manacle tight around his right wrist.
That
had not happened the last time he was picked up. Had they decided to add some new cruelty to their
punishment for a petty offense?

“What’s your name?” the boy asked him.

“Don’t you mean ‘What does the State call me? ’” He closed his eyes and tried to remember what had happened. He had been walking home from an illegal second shift,
cleaning gears in the Ministry of Timekeeping until the late hour of 13:00 . . .

“I know you’re not a Citizen. But you have a name.”

Tetch groaned. He felt around for something to lean against, found the metal ledge the annoying boy sat on, and pulled himself up. He made sure to tug hard at the cord binding them, to test just
how heavy and strong the boy might be. He almost toppled. Tetch smiled.

“If the State cared about its people—all its people, not just the ones with good homes—neither of us would be sitting here.” Tetch blew his nose clear. He caught a whiff
of cologne. “You may not be street, but you still stink.”

The boy stiffened on the ledge. “I don’t stink.”

“Oh, yes you do. Not like garbage or piss. Lemme guess. What’s all the perfume the Party debutantes wear these days?
Loyalty No. 4?
” Tetch leaned close to the boy and
breathed in deep. “No, I think it’s
Nepotism
.” He laughed, which left him wincing from the way it hurt his head.

“It’s not perfume. It’s cologne. And it’s not even mine—”

“Well, you reek of it. So either you’re finally lying like a good Party boy or you’ve been sweating the sheets with some—”

“Sweating the sheets?”

“Sure. Never heard that one?”

“No.” A moment later, the boy chuckled. “But it’s not a bad one.”

“No, it’s not.”

They sat there in silence a while.

“This isn’t for breaking curfew.”

“No.”

“Shit. What are they blaming me for?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think anything. They’re a press gang.”

Press gangs. He had grown up with his older sister telling nightmare stories of such men stealing children if a window were ever opened for fresh air. And all Workers would refer to someone who
angered the State enough to “disappear” as being “pressed” into service.

He was going to disappear.

Tetch vomited then, throwing up the meager food he’d spent his wages on to take the edge off his hunger after he’d worked so long, so often. It didn’t look like much splattered
on the van’s floor, but the stench helped cover up the other boy’s cologne.

“They’re bringing us to the Front Lines,” Tetch said as he wiped his lips.

“I think so. I tried reasoning with them. They can’t just take a Citizen off the streets—I mean . . .”

Tetch stared at him, seeing the embarrassment on his face color it red.

“Sorry. Look. Just because you’re a Worker and I’m not, doesn’t mean we have to hate each other. I like Workers—”

“I’m so happy to hear that. Makes everything all right, knowing I have a Worker Sympathizer shackled to me.”

The boy blinked. Then he turned away. Just as well. Tetch closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Maybe his heartbeat would calm down. The Front Line. Shit.

•  •  •

The van began to slow down. Allard looked at the Worker youth, who had opened his eyes.

Then came the sound of an explosion. Tires bursting. The van shook, tilted and toppled.

Allard found himself atop the other boy. He was very aware of how sweaty and hot the Worker’s skin was against his own. The Worker had hazel eyes.

“You okay?” asked Allard.

“Once you roll off me. What happened?”

They listened. Screams began. The men of the press gang shouted foreign words in terror. Gunshots. The sound paralyzed Allard. He pressed tighter and closer against the Worker. Instinct, he told
himself, the instinct to find comfort in holding another when you’re scared. The Worker struggled to push him off and rise but Allard whispered in his ear not to move. He didn’t know
for sure that was the wisest decision, but he couldn’t imagine it would be wise to bring attention to themselves in the back of the van. He didn’t know what was outside but as long as
it didn’t know they were
inside
, they’d be safe. Or, at least, safer.

The screams stopped. Not tapered off. Just stopped.

What is it?
mouthed the Worker.

He didn’t know, all his years of instruction rendered useless. Allard just looked into the Worker’s pretty hazel eyes. Kyet had nice eyes, but not hazel eyes. Good hazel eyes that
the State had probably never touched but were perfect based on genetics alone.

What?

Heavy footsteps. Many. As if a mob walked around the van. No, not a mob, because there was a pattern to the falling feet, as if it were the marching sound of a military parade. The notion, so
ridiculous but somehow so apt, made Allard smile, which must have perplexed the Worker, who looked lost.

“A parade of thousands,” whispered Allard.

Then, whoever was outside began to beat on the walls of the van. It drowned out the streaming music—in fact, the speakers in the van died—as if they sought to turn the van into a
metal drum and signal their violence to the entire State. Allard bit his lip. There was a rhythm, a definite meter, one that tantalized his memory with familiarity. Where had he heard it
before?

The pounding did not last long. Again came the sound of countless feet in unison stamping the hard earth. But they moved away until all was silent.

His sweat dripped from his forehead on to the other boy’s chin, right where a scattering of early whiskers was beginning to grow. He dwelt a while on the motion of the Worker’s chest
beneath him. Up and down. He realized that, only hours ago, he would have given anything to be in a similar position with Kyet. He had been spurned, laughed at, but now found himself atop someone
even more alluring.

He had the urge to lower his head a bit and kiss the Worker. He had never kissed anyone before. He had watched vids of it being done and wanted to know the sensation. Would it occupy his entire
mouth? He suspected his entire body would know it was being kissed, despite just lips touching one another.

The smell of sweat and the intimate smell of the Worker filled his lungs. Not a terrible smell. Not bad at all. He focused on that, not whatever lurked outside, not on Kyet, and breathed
deeply.

“I think they’re gone,” the Worker whispered.

“Uh-huh.”

The Worker moved beneath him, then stopped. “You’re enjoying this.”

Allard realized he had an erection that was pressing against the Worker’s leg.

“Sorry.”

But the Worker now wore a smirk, one that both embarrassed and consoled Allard, who stood up. The Worker followed, of course, thanks to the cord linking their wrists. But while he peered out
through one of the bullet holes in the van wall, Allard stared at him.

•  •  •

Tetch did not know if he should tell Citizen-boy what he saw through the holes. He wasn’t really sure himself. Perhaps he was wrong. There are no such things as metal
spiders. He must have seen a piece of debris dropping from the van.

“It looks . . . clear enough.”

He turned back to Citizen-boy, whose interest had subsided enough not to be so noticeable, though he still looked flushed and embarrassed. Tetch could not help but give him a smile-there were
Worker sympathizers and then
Worker sympathizers.
Plus, well, it was kind of flattering to know that being kidnapped did not detract from his appeal.

“Your family know you like boys in overalls?” Tetch asked. He made a show of pulling at the edges of the hook-and-loop fastener at his collar. Now some of his chest was exposed.
Citizen-boy’s eyes widened.

“Uhh . . . no.”

He took a step closer to Citizen-boy and, with his unshackled hand, lifted up the slack on the cord connecting them. “I think you’re starting to like this.” Nothing wrong with
ensuring that the guy did exactly what Tetch needed. Or wanted. It had to be a long way back to the capital.

“I—I . . .” Citizen-boy swallowed. “Maybe.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Tetch said.

The doors were still locked. Together, they kicked at the latch until it broke.

Tetch blinked at the light and enjoyed the sensation of the cooler air greeting his skin.

They moved around to the side of the van. Whatever had happened to the front end had left it twisted and broken. Slashed tires were hanging in tendrils of black rubber and metal wire. The
windows were shattered, leaving the ground glittering with broken safety glass. The driver-side door had been torn off and thrown twenty feet away. But thrown by what?

Tetch saw blood on the ground. He should go check—not to see if they were dead, he didn’t doubt that—but the press gang might have a v-comm or something useful.

Something skittered near Tetch’s foot. Citizen-boy yelped at what looked like a cross between a human hand and a spider, with legs tipped in gleaming metal and trailing a segmented cord as
it crawled over the roof of the van.

“What was that thing?!”

“I don’t know.”

Moments after he slowly began moving back toward the open van doors, he realized he had taken hold of Citizen-boy’s hand. He looked down at their fingers, sweaty in the heat, glanced back
up at Citizen-boy’s face, which still wore an expression of fear, and realized the guy hadn’t yet noticed the gesture. So he squeezed the boy’s hand. Not hard. Fondly.