Robogenesis (20 page)

They are survivors and they have had to fight machines and other people, too. It shows in how far they stand from each other. The way they orient their little tarp shelters. It’s in the bulge of hidden weapons carried by all of them, even the kids. And it especially shows up in how pure they are. Sweaty and greasy and just plain filthy, but all made of flesh, through and through.

They have to be pure—the Tribe kills modified humans on sight.

Modified humans like my sister. Or her boyfriend, Thomas. All three of us stayed here as long as we could. We thought maybe the waves of refugees would stop. But they didn’t. The city filled up more and more until not even the Underground’s tunnels were safe. Streams of hungry,
angry people were coming right into our home. Now they sleep and fight and trade on streets that used to be death to set foot on.

I hate that the bad guys look like us. They eat what we eat. Breathe the same air. It took a couple of months, but now I’m figuring out that these yellow-eyed scavengers are going to catch us and kill us sooner or later.

So today is the day, whether I agree or not.

Mathilda led me down here to our most secret place. Our first place. This is the subway tunnel where the fighters brought my sister and me when we washed up in New York City. This is where Mathilda used the autodoc to fix me when I was hurt with shrapnel. Over the years, she used it again and again to keep me strong. And this is also where she met
him
.

Thomas is on his knees across the room, rolling supplies up in a tarp. The girls say he’s handsome. He is half Mexican, a solid build with dark black hair and hazel eyes. He uses only his right hand, bundling the tarp. His left is placed flat on the ground. The industrial scissors where his fingers should be are glinting, lightly scraping the concrete. He was modified in the Rob work camps, like my sister.

But he is nothing like my sister.

“Are you sure, Mathilda?” I’m asking, quietly. She is watching Thomas with her mouth open a little bit. It’s about as dreamy a look as she can get, with no eyes. His scissor hand doesn’t bother her. She told me that Thomas’s blades are more real to her than his natural skin. Mathilda sees the muscle patterns under the flesh. She watches people manipulate the meat on their faces into different expressions. Smiles and frowns, it’s all the same to Mathilda. It’s just meat.

Right now, Thomas is frowning up at me.

“Look, Nolan,” he says. “Now is our only chance to make it across the bridge. We tried waiting but it’s getting worse every day. More people, more eyes.”

“We could swim across the river,” I mutter, but Thomas just glances at me like I’m an idiot.

We both know that swimming across the river is next to impossible. Early on in the New War, stumpers started hiding around the city. The
explosives would come scuttling out if you got too close. They’d blow people to pieces. Big, screaming pieces. It wasn’t until late in the war that we realized some of them had evolved to swim.

Dumb and mute now, the water roaches are still bobbing on the river waves by the thousands. Little mossy blobs, covered in algae and bleached pale on top by the sun. They can still latch and detonate. Not even good for scavenge.

Mathilda turns her head in her special way. When she points her chin to the ground like this, it means that she is pushing her eyes out of this room. Listening to the heartbeat of the outside world. Talking back to it, sometimes.

Six months ago, I pretended to be asleep and watched her make that same face. From my pallet, I saw her stare into space and whisper to someone called Nine Oh Two. She had an antenna cord in one hand and her head cocked to the side, just like this. I didn’t know it at the time, and nobody else knows it now, but I think that night I was watching my sister win the New War.

“The water is still too dangerous. And there are watchers posted on the bridges,” Mathilda says. “I can hear them checking in with each other. They’re looking for us. Felix Morales is offering rewards for every modified killed.”

Her lip quivers and she bites it.

“What else?” I ask. “What else did you see?”

“Somebody … I don’t know. Someone that communicates like Big Rob used to. That orange light in the sky. Whispers that fall into people’s ears. Into their minds. It has a name … 
Arayt
 …?” she trails off, whispering.

“See?” says Thomas. “We gotta get out of here now.”

“You’re right that we waited too long,” I say, trying to think of anything to defy Thomas. “The north is barricaded. But we should make a raft or steal a boat or something. Go right out into the bay.”

Thomas angrily tightens a pair of straps around the tarp. Picks it up and slings it over his shoulder. All our possessions.

“And what if they’re watching the water? We’ll be floating, helpless. Why won’t you just trust me?” he asks. “This is going to work. It will
be dark soon. We’ll take the tunnel and use other people as camouflage. With the shadows, nobody on the street will notice her eyes.”

It’s a terrible plan. But I’m not the one who is supposed to make these decisions. I’ve always had someone to keep me safe.

“Are you sure?” I ask Mathilda.

She pauses, watching Thomas. Finally, she sighs. “I don’t have a better plan, Nolan. It’s too dangerous to split up.”

“I just don’t think it’s safe,” I mutter.

Thomas steps between my sister and me. He slides his good arm tight around her shoulders. Then he turns and glares at me.

“You think you’re safe right now? Dude, you’re not even fourteen years old. I don’t think you understand that not all people are good. Plenty of your Underground friends are willing to sell us out to the Tribe.”

“No, they wouldn’t …,” I say, trailing off.

I can throw a rock through the window of a ten-story skyscraper, but my voice sounds high-pitched and childish in my ears.

“You don’t have to come with us, you know,” Thomas says, holding up his scissors. His other arm is still around my sister. Mathilda regards me emotionlessly with her black facets, as hard to read as always.

“Thomas,” she says, but he squeezes his arm around her and she leans her head against his shoulder. I wonder if she is relieved to have someone she can depend on. Instead of someone she always has to take care of.

“He has to hear this,” says Thomas, kissing Mathilda’s hair. He looks over at me, eyes narrow, scissors glinting. “You could stay here if you wanted, Nolan. You could join the Tribe and become a part of this place. You’re normal, not like us. Hear me? You’re not like us. Don’t forget it.”

Mathilda has a bandage wrapped around her face, covering her eyes. It is tan and stretchy and she says that she can see right through it. She also says she can see my heart beating in my chest. I believe her.

Thomas has on an army jacket with sleeves that go past his scissor hand. The scissor blade is wrapped in a bandage. It’s hard to notice anyway. He’s always had the habit of keeping his damaged hand hidden—
even before the Tribe showed up. It’s a quiet, subconscious kind of magic trick that is always happening with him.

I would guess that he’s ashamed of it. But what do I know? I’m not like them, as Thomas pointed out. So it’s up to me to lead the way.

“Straight to the Lincoln Tunnel,” says Thomas, grabbing the back of my elbow with his good hand. He pushes me.

“I heard you already. Geez,” I respond, shaking him off.

We’re in what used to be called Times Square. It was a special part of Old Manhattan. Now it’s a patchy meadow over a broken asphalt street, surrounded by creaking skyscrapers that are turning green and brown with moss and vines and creepers. Up high, the steel and glass walls are stained in streaky waterfalls of rain and soot. The ring of buildings seems to shiver as a chilly breeze sweeps in and ruffles the carpet of leaves growing on their bellies. It won’t be safe down here for much longer, not in the shadows of these leaning dinosaur bones.

We walk through fading dusk, staying close together and avoiding eye contact with strangers who pass by. The Lincoln Tunnel is only a mile southwest of here. The newcomers have cut paths in the grass from the central walkway to nearby buildings. Shattered windows breathe smoke from cooking fires inside; suspicious eyes are on us.

A few months ago, we’d have attracted a dozen types of Rob just walking out here unprotected. The empty buildings were only good for putting distance between the burrowing varieties of Rob and our tunnels. Quadruped runners used to climb four or five stories and make camouflaged nests on windowsills, waiting to leap down at any sign of movement. I still can’t stop myself from constantly scanning the thick brush and empty window sockets.

Ahead, I see a knot of thin faces. Eyes flashing. I steer us toward an overgrown side street. Thomas tries to grab my elbow but I throw my arms out. “Scavenge?” I ask to a group of people huddled next to a building. “I’ll give metal for pelts. Metal for pelts.”

They turn away. I don’t have to worry about people wanting metal. There’s plenty of that to be had. Too much.

After we’ve avoided the watchers, Thomas pushes me back on track. “No more detours,” he whispers at my back.

After another few minutes, I reach a hand back for Mathilda.

“You okay?” I ask. The tall buildings are thinning out now that we’re almost to the Hudson. The tunnel is only a half mile south of here and I’m getting scared.

“She’s fine,” says Thomas.

The tarp full of supplies clinks with each step he takes. I hear him murmuring to Mathilda but can’t make out the words. In the last nine months, I have never been able to figure out why my sister likes this guy. He isn’t especially nice. He doesn’t seem very thoughtful. He’s strong, but all the survivors are.

All I can tell is that sometimes he picks her up. Cradles her like a little girl and spins her around. They go on walks together. And sometimes he holds his head a little sideways and grins at her crooked and says something mean.

I’ll never understand her.

That rough hand is on my elbow again. “Through there,” says Thomas, urging me toward a blasted-out doorway just beyond a tangled field. It’s a small building in the shadow of a thirty-story skyscraper. Gnats flitter through dim sunlight over high grass. Even now, we stay away from the really wild places. Dumb machines are still hunting out there, lost in the woods without their master.

“Why this way?” I ask. “The tunnel is over there.”

Thomas doesn’t say anything. He just shoves me as we cross the field. That steady
clink-clink
comes from the bag behind me, urging me ahead. It’s starting to feel ominous now.

I step through the doorway, rubbing my arm. It’s dark inside and the checkerboard floor is covered in dirt and wilted yellow grass.

The clinking sound stops.

“Thomas?” I ask, turning.

The combined silhouette of Thomas and Mathilda stands in the empty door frame. Red sunlight is streaming down behind them, really gentle, picking out the flight of bugs and floating wisps of cottonwood. It’s pretty, but a dead fear is building in my chest.

Something is wrong.

“Guys?” I ask.

My eyes are adjusting to the light. Now I see the two men standing on either side of the door I just walked through. Both are shorter than me. Lean and strong, with dirt-stained faces and wolf smiles. They wear looted designer jeans and jackets.

The Tribe.

“Damn, you’re a big one, aren’t ya?” says one of them. The other one is leaning forward, his arm moving quick in the twilight. By the time I understand, it’s too late to react. The metal pipe connects hard against my left knee.

“Nolan?” shouts Mathilda.

A starburst of pain blossoms in my leg and I fall onto the dirt-covered linoleum floor. Mathilda’s screams come from outside. Her shadow is on the ground in front of my face. It separates from Thomas and now she is struggling, twisting and scratching to get away from the man in the doorway.

And to get away from Thomas.

Another shadow flickers toward my face. I roll onto my back as the metal bar thuds into the ground next to my head. I reach out and grab it, pulling the skinny man down on top of me. It is surprisingly easy.

“Little help!” he shouts. His cheeks are scarred with acne and his breath reeks like alcohol. Mathilda screams again, a short, hurt yelp that puts a burst of adrenaline into my legs and arms. I grab the pipe in both hands and kick the squirming man off me. He bounces against the wall and crumples with a surprised grunt.

I scramble up in time to catch a fist in my mouth.

I take it and keep staggering forward, spitting blood. With all my momentum, I knock Thomas away from Mathilda. Both of us hit the ground in a heap.

My sister staggers into the street, free.

“Run,” I say, as someone clamps a hand onto the back of my shirt. I’m on all fours now, crawling forward with somebody tugging on my back. The metal pipe is still clenched in my fist.

Mathilda reaches for me, instead of taking off. She has her forehead
creased in that stubborn way she has. The flat black sockets of her eyes don’t project any emotion and I wonder again what she sees. Whether she could have seen this coming.

“I’ll catch up,” I say, climbing to my feet. I’m holding the metal bar low, arm trapped against my side. I stagger forward another step. I’m dragging Thomas and whoever-it-is behind me and they are clawing, trying to pull me down.

I plant my free palm on Mathilda’s chest and push. She staggers back.

“Run!”
I shout.

The shove snaps her out of it. We are brother and sister but we haven’t hit each other since the war started. Mathilda turns away and scrabbles for the building across the street.

Only now do I move the bar out from in front of my knee. Keeping the metal there was the only way for her not to see. If she knew my leg was sliced open and bleeding, she never would have left me. The pain of that last step has put a cold sweat on my forehead and goosebumps on the backs of my arms. I’m panting like a dog now and I can feel my heartbeat pounding in the back of my throat making me want to throw up.

Someone has an arm wrapped around my neck, pulling.