Dove Arising (36 page)

We’ve evaded the gas, but we’re not free yet. The General strides toward us, accompanied by his subordinates—among them Jupiter and a razor-thin woman whose visor obscures her face. She jogs like clockwork, moving only what’s necessary.

“Kappa and Theta, don’t move,” the General booms. “That’s an order.”

Our limbs freeze, but my eyes swivel in their sockets, assessing the surroundings. The wall is behind us. Wes is wearing protective gear; he’s armed, but passing equipment my way would be perilous. My only other resources are a fallen Lazy to my left and a security mirror to my right.

“Keep your eyes on my dad, little birdy.” Jupiter fires a warning shot near my feet. I crouch down about three centimeters, breathe in and out, and slacken my quadriceps and hamstrings.

“You never fight fair!” Wes aims his Lazy above Jupiter’s head, intending to warn him back. As Wes shoots, Jupiter raises a gloved hand. The beam singes his fingers. In self-induced pain, Jupiter hollers obscenity upon obscenity. That deceitful piece of . . .

Wes shouts an unfamiliar swearword.

Jupiter points to Wes, draws his index finger across his throat, and nods to his father.

Before the General’s troops can open fire, Wes throws his shield over his upper body. I freeze in place. Fear for him hacks at my heart, even though he’s more than capable of defending himself. Unlike Yinha, he has better aim when he’s fighting for his life. He shoots holes through the black gloves of two of the General’s underlings; they drop their weapons and clutch their hands to their chests. Nausea rises in my throat, but not for long. The General turns his attention—and his Lazy—to my face.

I leap sideways, but I’m not strong enough to dive behind the mirror in one bound. When my left shoulder ignites with pain, I scream. My quadriceps throb as I push off again and sail the last meter to shelter. The General’s aim stays true; spots of fire erupt down my arm.

I land hard, roll like a log, and cradle the useless limb to my chest. Raw pain and the odor of burnt flesh make me woozy. I chomp my tongue to stay sharp. Before me, the plastic backing of the security mirror smokes as it begins to liquefy and drip.

It’s not over.
Using my good arm, I prop myself up and peer around the mirror. Through bleary eyes, I see the General clutching his chest. His armor has been singed away, leaving a pool of blood.

I made the right choice: defense. In his impatience, the General forgot not to shoot concentrated radiation at reflective surfaces. He’s a strong man, though, and not unintelligent. He flings his Lazy to the ground and pulls an old-style pistol from his belt.

Copper bullets will render my mirror shield useless. I turn my back to it in case it shatters.

But instead of a shot and breaking glass, I hear a shout of agony. Again, I peek out. A dagger has been driven into the unarmored spot between the General’s neck and shoulder by none other than the razor-thin soldier, who disappears into the crowd.

Wes joins me behind the mirror, breathing hard and clutching a battered shield.

“Whoever that was—she’s in for it.”

“You okay?” I whisper, examining the scene.

He nods. “You, on the other hand . . .”

“Shh.” I point to what’s happening.

With the General down, the Militia is confused and restive. Two colonels can’t decide who will take command, yelling at each other and into their helmet speakers. Then they stop yelling altogether. Some soldiers remove their helmets and tap them suspiciously. Entire clumps drop their Electrostuns and dash out of the Atrium. I look to Wes for an explanation.

He lifts his visor. “Wasn’t me. But someone cut the power to the headsets. I can’t hear orders, can’t see other soldiers’ positions.”

“Cygnus?” His name sticks in my throat.

“I think he managed to hack the Defense control room. Impressive.”

For an instant, I’m unspeakably proud. Then I realize what kinds of trouble he’ll be in when they catch him.

The wall screens go fuzzy. Presumably, while Cygnus worked on Defense, InfoTech workers under intense Militia pressure reclaimed the broadcasting system. The Atrium falls silent as six dark figures seated around a conference table appear on the walls and ceiling.

“We’ll take over from here,” Andromeda says.

40

“PHAET, WE HAVE TO GO.” WES TUGS MY uninjured arm. “You’re losing consciousness—not to mention blood.”

I keep biting my tongue. The pain keeps me awake. I need to hear this, the first unscheduled public address the Committee has given in decades.

“I’m staying.”

“I’ll pick you up and carry you if I have to.”

I glare, knowing that he’s brawny enough to keep his word. My eyes remain narrowed until he leaves me alone. I saw off a strip of fabric from my pant leg; Wes takes it and binds my bleeding deltoid.

“Soldiers, drop your weapons,” Nebulus says over the din of protestors. “Officers, remember that you are keepers of the peace.”

Several soldiers hang their heads. Confused protesters shake their drugged companions, who awaken and sleepily rub their eyes, but they keep shouting.

“We apologize for what you have seen today,” says Andromeda, still louder. “You should not have witnessed the accidental death of Belinda Delta or the execution of Mira Theta, a lawbreaker of the first degree. With her manifesto, Mira did not act to keep order but to create chaos. Although her crimes were severe, we believe now that even she did not deserve that fate.”

Cassini declares, “From now on there shall be no executions, public or private, anywhere on the Bases, and all efforts will be made to protect children, the heralds of our future.”

“What?”
Wes and I exclaim together, even as the crowd murmurs excitedly. The Committee and the Militia can continue to execute whomever they like, as long as no one finds out. As for their “efforts” to “protect children”? If authorities damage any youths, including my siblings, the offspring of a dissident, the Committee could easily say they tried to prevent it.

Hydrus stands.

“Mira Theta accused us of illegitimacy, of unjustly holding power. We realize that our emergency rule has extended for over thirty years. We have never been able to schedule new elections, as governing six bases is a massive undertaking, especially in restless times such as these. We apologize sincerely for this oversight. Free and fair elections will take place six months from today, to elect one Committee member per base.”

Wes and I glance at each other, wearing the same incredulous expression. This promise—elections—is something that the Committee cannot retract. They’re risking their power to temporarily prevent larger uprisings.

Their greatest fear is losing control. I’ll make use of that knowledge someday.

Cassini continues. “And to you, Shelter residents, we apologize for the circumstances in which you live and for any neglect you feel. We hope to better integrate you into the base population and acknowledge you as a vibrant, diverse community.”

“To this end,” the Committee choruses, “we will establish an independent Shelter Assistance Program, or SAP.”

Around me, people chorus, “No!” and “Lies!”

The Committee is making an effort, but can they scrape the dirt off the Shelter dome or dredge up the people from its pitted floor?

I smile dimly at Wes, and he smiles back.

“Now that you have witnessed our oaths,” says Janus, “we command you to return to Shelter. And quietly.”

Grumbling, prodded by Militia, the Shelter residents turn in the direction of their department.

The Committee hates me, no doubt. But no matter what they do to me, they are going to set up elections and a SAP. The population of the base, which has witnessed their promises, will hopefully keep them in line. Perhaps Mom’s sacrifice wasn’t purposeless. I hope that wherever she is, she knows there’s a chance that things will get better.

The Militia stands guard as the Shelter crowd files out of the Atrium in a ragtag line—even the victims of laughing gas and Electrostuns are back on their feet. Soldiers using truncheons thwack the Shelter residents who shout or spit at their feet.

A small black figure sprinting across the floor disturbs what peace of mind I have left. As it approaches, I’m relieved to see that it’s Eri, waving her helmet like a warning flag.

“Hey! The rest of my unit’s coming after you. I had to run to tell you,” she says, her eyes fixed on Wes, “because some juvenile hacker tanked our headsets—fizz! They’re here!” Eri darts down a hallway, shouting over her shoulder. “Go, go, go!”

Wes grabs my arm as two Pygmette speeders zip toward us.

“Wezn Kappa and Phaet Theta,” drones a mechanical voice. “Stop. You are under arrest.”

As if we hadn’t figured that out. We increase the frequency of our steps and stretch our legs until our hamstrings threaten to snap, but it’s futile. On foot, we can never match the indoor top speed of a Pygmette, which is 120 kilometers per hour—especially with Wes staring downward while sprinting.

“Why haven’t they given up yet?!” Eyes still on the floor, he digs inside his jacket pocket and throws a grenade over his shoulder. The explosion leaves my ears ringing.

The voice addresses us from the remaining speeder, closer than before. “I repeat: stop or we will use tranquilizers.”

Wes responds by flinging himself to the floor. I follow. The Pygmette passes over our backs, its pilot shouting obscenities. Wes jams his thumb downward into a nearly invisible groove, and the floor beneath plummets us into a smelly abyss.

Back into the Sanitation lanes we go.

I yelp as we land in the dank tunnel. With smarting muscles that can’t possibly tolerate any more mitochondrial activity, we pull ourselves up and run. As I shuffle along, swinging only one arm, Wes races ahead. “Sorry, don’t mean to leave you behind! I’ve got to open the next manhole!”

The ceiling is thin, so we can hear the buzzing of the speeders above, pushing us on. My usually reliable legs cooperate less with my brain; my body’s resources have been allocated to my wounds, which throb with every pump of my arms.

“Getting close now!” Wes hollers.

As we round a curve, a black-clad figure appears in the distance. We move closer, and another soldier appears behind the first—then two more. Their clothing looks bulky; they’ve been fitted with body armor. Although Wes and I recognize the danger, we barrel forward. He readies his Lazy and throws his tranquilizing gun to me. The tunnel is narrow, so the soldiers guarding the final manhole into Defense can only approach us one at a time.

Violet light zips from the end of Wes’s weapon. It blinds the first private, who throws her arms in front of her visor. Wes collides with her, using a free hand to lift her chin and knock her head into the wall with a
clang
. I lean my head around Wes and fire a tranquilizing dart into the thinly gloved hand of the second private. My victim crumples to the ground as Wes traps the third private’s arm between his free hand and Lazy; he twists hard, snapping it.

The fourth soldier, a corporal, has begun running, desperate to evade the fate of her underlings. We pursue her—until she throws herself on the floor over what must be the manhole to the Defense hangar. She rips off one glove and holds her thumb over the invisible groove that’ll activate the elevator.

“My other soldiers are stationed right below us.” A helmet obscures her face, but there’s no mistaking those saccharine tones. “And I’m willing to bring them in.”

Callisto Chi stands between us and escape.