Blood Zero Sky (21 page)

“Of course they do,” says Ethan, “but it would come out of their profit.”

“It makes no sense, though,” I say. “What good is profit if nobody benefits from it?”

“A few benefit,” says Ethan. “The rest is just wasted, or used to perpetuate and expand the Company’s power even further. But the Company is a machine, May. It’s not a thinking entity in the normal sense. It doesn’t operate on logic. If it would increase the Company’s profits, everyone would be sent to a camp like that. There is no logic in a Company, only greed. If somebody tries to do something for the good of the world that hurts Company profits, they’ll simply get fired. It’s the nature of the system.”

Night sounds envelop us. I’ve grown to love nature—what remains of it, in this poisoned world. Twigs crackle under our feet. Stars glimpse us through the tree branches. At least, I hope they’re stars and not satellites.

“Why do you take the time to show me so much?” I ask. “Teach me to fight and help me understand the Company and everything?”

Ethan sighs. “There are a couple reasons. For one, you’ve grown up closer to the Company than anyone. I guess I figure if I can make you understand why it has to be destroyed, then I can convince anyone.”

“What’s the other reason?” I ask.

He stops, turns to me. “Because you’re a leader,” he says, “and I may not always be here.”

We walk the rest of the way back listening not to our own words, but to those of the owls and the crickets and the breeze.

—Chapter Ø15—

The prison raid.

The team and I leave the underground village at dawn, rising from the earth at almost the same moment as the sun. Already, the day grows hot. We trek through a long tunnel, climb up a ladder, and come up through some sort of storm drain set in the cracked, decaying foundation of a long-fallen building. This is the outer industrial arc, where nature has almost reclaimed most of America Division’s former manufacturing might.

Ethan leads us single file under cover of trees down a long dirt footpath, and despite my nerves, I begin to feel good. The throbbing pain of the wound on my cheek has diminished almost to nothing. I notice strength in my legs, feel the sun on my skin—and there’s something else, something new: the weight of the white gun on my hip.

There are twenty-six of us, including me. Ethan walks in the lead with McCann, the only other member of the ruling council to volunteer for the mission besides that bitch Grace, who takes up the rear. Twenty-six seems to me a tiny number for such an undertaking—even I know that Company prisons are heavily fortified and armed with elaborate electronic defense systems. Judging from the whispers I heard in the camp before our departure, I wasn’t the only one who thought the idea of this mission was pretty foolish. But nobody asked my advice, and if they had, I doubt if I’d have said anything. I, like the twenty-five rebels now walking with me, face the coming danger with the sort of calm only claimed by the truly blessed, the stupid, or the doomed.

After a short hike, we descend a small hill and find the path ahead opening up into a narrow dirt road. There, in among the trees, sit five large, black, off-road vehicles, identical to the security squad trucks. If anybody else is surprised to find them sitting in the middle of the grove, nobody shows it. We all draw up in the center of the sandy clearing and look at one another. I’m amazed and delighted by the fact that ten of the twenty-six-member crew are women. Some of them look at me now with hard, patient, unreadable expressions. I’m thrilled by the strength they exude and by the thought that one day I might be like them, with the same wrinkled, sun-battered skin, the same sharp eyes, the same quiet, implacable strength. I meet their appraising gazes with what I hope is a friendly but measured smile.

Ethan crosses his arms and scans our ranks with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. Something looks a little different about him today. It’s not just the strange, bulky sunglasses pushed back against his forehead or the gauntness of his face; everything about his bearing is slightly different—no less commanding than usual, but a little strange, as if he’s channeling a spirit with different mannerisms from his own. I wonder:
Could it be fear?

Nodding to himself, apparently satisfied with us, Ethan points to McCann, then to a short, hefty woman, then to a broad-shouldered young man, and then to Grace. “The four of you will each drive a squad truck. Follow me,” he says. “When we get there, I’ll do the talking. When the fighting comes, run fast, shoot fast, and stay close to your leaders. You all know what to do.”

I have no idea what to do, but I nod anyway.

As the vehicle doors open, I head toward Ethan’s car, but McCann calls me back.

“Miss Fields,” he says. “You’ll ride with me.” Then, perhaps reading the expression on my face, he adds, “You’ll see why soon enough.”

This is one of the few times in my life I’ve act ally been on the ground beyond the industrial arc. I ride, watching the countryside streak past, watching abandoned houses, gas stations, and stores appear
in my window then disappear again. I still remember when N-Corp enticed the last stragglers from the countryside, where they were unproductive and difficult to police, and into the cities. First, they cut all jobs that existed outside of the hubs, so most people had to move into town in order to make a living. Some proud country folk were resistant, but once the Company cut electricity to all rural areas (for the sake of efficiency, of course), country life completely died out. Rumor has it that there are still a few mad hermits here and there who live off the polluted land and attack people who wander near their homes, but for all I know, these stories may have been started by the Company. The tales are just scary enough to keep people inside the hubs, where HR can keep an eye on them.

Now, I’m struck by the beauty of these lost and forbidden places. It’s fall, and this empty world seems golden. The polluted air has been cleansed by the cooling weather and smells of things old and sweet and ripe.

As I watch it all pass out my squad-truck window, my mind wanders to Clair. During my training, I fought hard to keep any distracting thoughts of her out of my mind, but now, on this long drive, it’s impossible. A few weeks ago, I would have assumed the Company treated their prisoners well, but after seeing the work camp, my worry for her has steadily increased. Now I know they’ll treat her in whatever way is most cost-effective for them. Which could mean they won’t feed her. And if you have to pay prison guards by the hour, it’s more efficient to torture a prisoner than to wait weeks for a confession, isn’t it?

I thrust these thoughts from my mind. I’m jittery enough as it is—there’s no need to get emotional. Around me, my fellow passengers are checking and re-checking their guns, peering into their clips, and patting their ammo pouches, all with the perfect calm of people about to go fishing and making sure their tackle boxes are in order.

McCann presses a button in the dash and music blasts forth with enough force to make me jump. He laughs good-naturedly around the plastic straw hanging out of his mouth and yells over the din.

“You mustn’t startle that easily, Miss Fields, not where we are going.”

“Call me, May,” I say. “And I won’t be scared.”

Although I am already scared—shaking, in fact—I somehow know that I’m telling the truth. I will be brave. He only nods, then gestures to the radio.

“This was my music,” he says. “I played the drums.”

I pause, listening to the sounds blaring from the speakers. Galloping drums pound over a twanging sort of instrument that I can only liken to a mouth harp tinged with distortion, and behind it all, a distant voice chants. The sound is beautiful, savage, stirring.

“I love it,” I tell him.

“I was a big star in my village, back in Africa Division. Can you believe that? I went into the hub city to make this album. I did everything when I was young, anything to get ahead. When I left my village and went to the city, my people were starving. So I did any work I could to help them. I sold drugs, guns, guitars, even dolls!” he laughs. “I sent half of the money back to the village elders, to help my starving people. All the money from the music concerts I sent back. When I met my wife and we made Michel, there was less money to send back. My wife, she was beautiful. I loved her very much. But she was a woman who liked nice things. Perfumes. Silk. Dresses. She wanted us to save money to send Michel to a private school when he was big enough. I had to work harder to make her happy, and now there was nothing left to send back to my village. Then, N-Corp came to the city with posters offering jobs that seemed too good to be true. I was one of the first to sign up. I wanted the people in the village to join the Company, too. Then, they would have everything they needed. Maybe it was just me being selfish. If they all worked for the Company, they wouldn’t need me sending money to them every week, then I would have plenty of credit and my wife would be happy. . . . ” He shakes his head.

“You know the rest,” he says. “After what happened in the village, I knew I had to fight the Company. I stopped chasing money and started chasing God. I joined this holy fight. I won’t even tell you what it was like for me and Michel, smuggling ourselves into America Division. It was hard. But I wanted to cut off the head of the dragon.”

“Where is your wife now?” I ask warily. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Oh, no. At least, I pray she isn’t. I pray she has all the perfumes and chocolates and pearls she could want.” He pauses. “She still works for the Company. She’s a manager in Africa Division.”

He pauses, then goes on: “Me and Michel, we’ll slay the dragon for her. We’ll give her that, instead of diamonds. You can’t take diamonds into heaven, but good deeds will follow you everywhere. He misses her very much.”

His sparkling eyes go watery for a second. I begin to ask him another question—it seems like there are so many questions I need to ask—then stop. Instead, I take out my ceramic and pretend to check it over like the others are checking theirs, though I hardly know what to look for. Next to me, McCann presses a button on the stereo and a new track of music comes on. Driving percussion and distant-sounding guitar fills the truck.

“This is what we like to sing before battle,” McCann says, then begins to sing words overtop the drums. He starts with a whisper, but soon his voice has grown to a full-throated call.

O say can you see,
By the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed
At the twilight’s last gleaming?

One by one, the others join in.

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, Through the perilous fight
O’er the ramparts we watched
Were so gallantly streaming . . .

Their voices rise together as strong and as powerful as any sound I’ve ever heard. Their song drowns out all other noise, even the simpering whispers of fear in my own gut, and soon I’m fortified, electrified, and ready to fight, to conquer or die. A tear comes into my eye as the song ends. Everyone sits solemnly, ready for action.

Against the silence of my companions and the rumble of the truck’s engine I whisper, “I’ve never heard that song before. It’s beautiful.”

~~~

“We’re close,” McCann says. “Prepare yourselves.”

The sporadic, nervous conversations and jokes of the previous hour dissipate, replaced by a taut silence. Around me, the brows of my comrades have lowered, their jaws have set. One woman in the back produces a tube full of the dark, inky makeup and begins painting a cross over the scar on the cheek of the rebel next to her. When the process has been repeated on everyone’s cheek and a layer of powder is applied, the crosses look remarkably like real implants. Next, the woman reaches behind the rear seat and produces a security-squad uniform for everyone in the car—everyone except me. As I look around, confused, I notice that on the far side of McCann’s cheek, the side that had been hidden from me, a cross has already been painted as well. In the back, my comrades wriggle into their uniforms.

Nobody offers to paint a cross on me.

McCann catches the look of concern on my face. “Alright, May,” he says. “It’s time for you to learn the plan. You are lucky to have a place of special honor in it.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. In my experience, whenever somebody tells you you’re lucky, it’s always the kiss of death.

“Now listen close,” he says. “You will be our ticket into the perimeter of the prison. You’re going to be our prisoner. You will be handcuffed, and when we arrive, the squadmen will take you from our custody. Ethan will go in with you, and once the two of you are inside, he will set you free. When that happens, an alarm will sound and the entire facility will go into lockdown mode, which means all doors in the prison will automatically close and lock until the emergency is over. You and Ethan will then be sealed inside, but more importantly, each quadrant of the prison will be sealed off from the others; all the guards will be stuck in the quadrant of the prison they’re in when the alarm sounds. This will cut by one-quarter the number of armed guards we’ll have to deal with at any given time. The doors will remain sealed until the alarm has stopped, and by then, God willing, we’ll have freed Clair and the others, and will be on the road with them already. For your part, you’ll simply have to play the prisoner, keep silent, and fight like a lion when the time comes. Remember, until we can break in to join you, you and Ethan will have to hold off all the squadmen in the quadrant by yourselves. One advantage you will have is that the electronic defenses inside the prison should be neutralized. Even so, it will not be easy. This is your chance to back out of the role you’ve been assigned, if you choose. Somebody else could go in your place, although Ethan feels you’d be best for the job.”

McCann looks over at me, studying me slyly, probing for hesitation, for any sign of weakness. I draw a deep breath to steady my voice before I say: “How many squadmen in the quadrant?”

“A hundred and fifty, by our best estimates.”

A moment passes as the enormity of the situation dawns on me. This is my first battle and it’s going to be me and Ethan, alone, against a hundred and fifty squadmen. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

“Okay,” I say finally, “But I’m going to need another clip.”

McCann grins.

As I go over his words again, my mind roils with questions. The plan seems riddled with holes and pitfalls too numerous to contemplate. Even if we—who only number twenty-six—are able to defeat one hundred and fifty fully trained and equipped squadmen, what if the electronic defenses aren’t neutralized, as they are expected to be? We would be decimated by the auto-defense systems. And what if the prisoners have been moved to another quadrant, or if they attempt to take me to a different quadrant than the one Clair is in? Then we’ll have to break into that second quadrant, releasing another one hundred and fifty squadmen, bringing the number of adversaries to a completely insurmountable three hundred. Most obviously, what if Ethan and I can’t hold off the guards long enough for reinforcements to break through and help us?

I am no fool. I see our odds clearly enough. But for some reason, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that I’m going to go anyway. It strikes me that this is a new kind of faith, one deeper than the brand that the Company peddles, and I bow my head in prayer. Unbidden, Jimmy Shaw’s heretical words march through my mind:
I believe God-fearing workers work harder
.

Maybe his confession should have strangled the faith within me, but somehow, as I finish my prayer and gaze at the brambles and scraggly pines out the car window, I feel God near me more clearly that I ever have. The immediacy of the feeling strikes me almost hard enough to bring tears into my eyes.