Blood Zero Sky (24 page)

The second faction was led by Grace, who claimed that an attack on such a prominent Company target, in the middle of a heavily armed hub, was simply too dangerous a move. Besides, she said, the military importance of the target was questionable. If they were going to risk the lives of hundreds or thousands of Protectorate soldiers, she argued, it should be to take out a squad member barracks or a weapons facility, not to participate in a symbolic gesture of defiance.

A lone man, Dr. Le Grande, who I later learned had a Ph.D. in agriculture from Cranton and left when Peak came into fashion, proposed patience. First and foremost, he was concerned about potential innocent casualties that might result from an attack on the Exchange. When Ethan assured him that every measure would be taken to ensure that only armed squad members would be injured in the raid, he still wasn’t convinced.

“We should watch and wait,” he said. “After all, I’m still not convinced that it’s impossible to reform the Company from the inside.”

The rest
were
convinced. Apparently reform efforts had been made for years, with the result that those who proposed the reforms either disappeared, died mysteriously, or were somehow induced to rethink their position—a change of heart that was usually followed by either a large increase in their credit level or a mysterious case of total amnesia.

Of course, I thought of my father. If only there were a way to get through to him, to make him understand what was happening and put a stop to it. . . . But after my visit to his house, I doubted whether he was in any mental condition to tell right from wrong. And even if I could get him on our side, did he really have the power to effect a change? Or was Jimmy Shaw the Company’s true master? Or Yao? Or Blackwell? Or someone else I’d never even met?

No, Ethan argued. There could be no falling back on strategies that had already failed. At this stage in the conflict, he claimed, no target was more important than the Stock Exchange.

“A symbolic victory is exactly what we need,” he argued. “Our real enemy isn’t the Company, it’s complacency. People need to understand what’s happening and get inspired to take action. The Protectorate Education Initiative is what’s going to change the tide of this war. R almost has it finished. And what better way to set the people up for it than by disrupting the merger ceremony? I’m telling you, if we show the people that the Company isn’t infallible, they’ll come flocking to our banner.”

“But how, Ethan?” Grace nearly shouted. “What’s your plan? I understand the Protectorate Education Initiative and I know it’s important, but this . . . I can’t see how this is anything but a suicide mission.”

For the next four hours, Ethan laid out his plan in incredible detail. He showed 3-D maps of the tunnels beneath N-Hub 2, architectural drawings of the Stock Exchange building, and even provided the names of the squadmen who would be assigned to security that day. If anyone else wondered how he got his information, they didn’t show it, and I vowed to ask him myself after the meeting.

Ethan laid out what sounded to me like a brilliant plan, but the moment he finished, Grace and her faction set about attacking it.

“What if they employ drones?” a barrel-chested, redheaded man asked as he stroked his goatee.

“Won’t happen,” Ethan said. “The Company has never brought out any of its lethal technology in any of the larger hubs. It would terrify people. They won’t do it. It’s bad P.R.”

“What about the escape plan?” a slight, middle-aged woman with long, gray-blond hair asked. “That’s what worries me.”

“Sorry, that’s the one part of the plan that I have to keep confidential,” Ethan said. “As you know, our security has been somewhat compromised lately.”

It was hard not to notice a few of the council members glancing at me.

“I agree with Leon,” Grace said with a shake of her head. “It sounds wonderfully dramatic, but in practice I just can’t see it working. There are too many things that could go wrong. All it would take is a thunderstorm with some gusty winds and the whole second team would be finished.”

“What would you propose instead?” McCann asked, finally getting annoyed.

“I propose we find a target that’s slightly less ludicrous!” Grace shouted.

Ethan broke in to explain why the exit plan for the second team was sound, but he still refused to give away the details of how our soldiers would escape the island of Manhattan. The debate went on.

The whole time I remained uncharacteristically silent, listening to the arguing, reasoning, pleading, and discussing with an odd mix of exhilaration and foreboding. It was certainly an incredible-sounding plan, and if Ethan was able to pull it off, it would be a huge victory for the Protectorate—and a major black eye for the Company. But it would be incredibly dangerous. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would have to take part in it.

Now, at forty minutes after midnight, the final vote is tallied: six in favor of Ethan’s plan, five opposed, with Clair, of course, not voting.

Grace stands, shutting off her IC and shaking her head. “Well, I hope you’re right, Ethan—for all our sakes.”

“One more order of business,” Ethan says, and the council, most of whom were already heading for the door, sigh as one and turn back.

“I have a tremendous number of preparations to make if we’re going to get ready for the mission next Friday,” he begins. “With Clair in the infirmary, I’m going to need some help.”

“What? You want Major Blake from second battalion?” Grace asks.

“Captain Hernandez has an excellent mind for strategy,” McCann suggests.

But Ethan, for the first time all day, looks at me.

“Fields, the Blackie spy?” Grace growls, incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Ethan! When the troops find out about this they’re going to be calling for a no-confidence vote on your leadership. It’s insane enough that you even let her sit in on this meeting, but I managed to bite my tongue.”

A few of the other council members are nodding and glowering at me. I glower back, even though I have no idea what’s going on.

“I’m the one commanding this operation and I’m the one planning it,” Ethan replies coolly. “If it’s going to succeed, I’m going to need all the help I can get. And Fields is the woman for the job. I propose we immediately bestow on her the rank of first lieutenant, under my command.”

Everyone stares at me like I have six eyes and a hand growing out of my forehead. Fortunately, I have the good sense to keep my mouth shut.

“You didn’t see her fight at the prison raid,” Ethan continues. “I did. Before reinforcements arrived, she stood by my side for ten minutes holding off the enemy. If it had been anyone else, I probably wouldn’t be standing here today. She’s a fighter. And she’s my choice.”

Ethan and Grace glare at one another for a few awkward moments, then Grace finally shrugs. “God, I hope you know what you’re doing,” she says wearily. “All in favor of promoting Private Fields to first lieutenant under General Ethan Greene’s command?”

“Aye,” they all say.

“Nay,” Grace says, but she’s the only one. “The ayes have it. Congratulations, Blackie. Meeting adjourned.”

Without further ceremony, the council files out of the room, except for McCann, who approaches and claps Ethan on the shoulder.

Ethan smiles tiredly. “Well, the hard part is over,” he says with his usual dry humor, “Now all we have to do is execute a precise, highly dangerous raid in a heavily guarded urban area.”

“Piece of cake,” McCann says, smiling.

I turn to Ethan. “You did that deliberately, didn’t you?” I ask. “Bringing up my promotion at the end of the meeting, when they were all too tired to argue about it.”

Ethan only winks at me.

“Never underestimate our general, Miss Fields. He has the finest mind for strategy around,” McCann says, then gives me a hearty pat on the shoulder, “Congratulations, First Lieutenant.”

I hardly know what the promotion means, but I feel a swelling of pride anyway.

“Don’t congratulate her yet,” Ethan says. “If we get out of the Stock Exchange alive, you can congratulate her then.”

—Chapter Ø17—

My promotion comes with a new shirt
with some stripes on the shoulder and a crapload of work. Basically, my job is to follow Ethan around and help him make all the preparations for the raid. We spend the first morning reviewing stores and provisions. One hundred of the Protectorate’s finest soldiers will be taking part in the operation, and they’ll need enough food, supplies, and ammunition for three days away in the field.

Ethan takes me to a blocked-off section of tunnel where we’re met by the two young Asian men I saw checking guns the first time I came into camp. Supply officers Wang and Monroe, as Ethan introduces them. He hands them each a paper with the words “requisition sheet” at the top. The two men look at it, exchange a few quiet words and nod.

“The packs and food will be fine, but I’m not sure about the sniper weapons. We have a few of them here and more coming soon, but we’ve been having trouble getting a hold of the lenses for the scopes.”

“I’ll check with R on it,” Ethan says. “It’s imperative we have them by Thursday morning at the latest.”

“We’ll try,” Monroe says, sounding a bit dubious.

“We’ll get it done, sir,” Wang asserts.

Just then, a sound in the tunnel behind them draws their attention, and the two men excuse themselves. There’s a strange, rhythmic clacking noise I’ve never heard before. I put one hand on my sidearm, ready for the worst, but Ethan seems unfazed. He steps over to a rack of ceramic rifles and begins examining one. Wang and Monroe, too, seem relaxed as a shape coalesces out of the darkened tunnel and approaches them. My heart beats faster when I realize what I’m seeing. It’s a horse, pulling a wagon!

“Ethan!” I nearly shout.

“What?” he asks, sighting down the barrel of the rifle.

“There’s a horse pulling that wagon!” I exclaim. I’ve never seen one before in my life—except in movies.

“Very good,” Ethan agrees dryly. “Ninety percent of our supplies come from Company shipments. We break into the computer network, adjust the shipping quantities, then our people on the inside take what we need—and nobody in the Company is the wiser. It works for food, clothing, medicine, almost everything. The only things we manufacture ourselves are weapons and ammunition. We have a small factory in a secret location that produces them for us. And we grow some limited quantities of food, too. N-Chow might keep an army alive, but it won’t keep it happy.”

“But why the horse?” I ask.

“Getting a hold of gasoline is tricky and the Company is pretty good at monitoring their electric grid, but there’s plenty of grass out past the industrial arc for a horse to graze on.”

Ethan sets the rifle back down on the rack as I watch Wang, Monroe, and a couple of burly men who must’ve been on the cart unload large sacks of N-Chow and stack them on pallets against one wall of the tunnel.

“Let’s go,” Ethan says, “They’ll take care of the requisitions. We’ve got work to do.”

~~~

Over the next few days, I learn more about the Protectorate than I ever thought possible.

I learn that so far, 523 Protectorate members and 711 squadmen have been killed in a secret war that has been simmering for years, unknown to nearly everyone in the Company.

I learn that five years ago, N-Corp added facial recognition software to their security cameras, so every Order operative who wants to go back in and perform clandestine missions is required to get plastic surgery to alter their appearance.

I learn that the Protectorate has an elite division called “The Reapers,” whose job it is to comb the countryside in search of wandering unprofitables or any people living outside the Company, assess their mental state, and, if appropriate, recruit them. Some Reapers even infiltrate the Company and try to recruit select high-level tie-men and women—like me—from within its ranks. Grace was the commander of this division for five years before being elected to the council. Clair served with them for a six-month stint, too. Because the Reapers are more likely than any of the other branches of the Protectorate to be engaged by the enemy, they are the most highly trained and battle-tested unit in the army.

I learn that the Protectorate has no less than twenty different campsites throughout America Division. Most of them are manned by only a handful of soldiers, who keep the area safe and secure in case the main army arrives. This force, of which I am now a part, numbers just under two thousand, and it moves at least once every six months to avoid enemy detection, a process they call “migration.”

Spies and traitors to the cause are shot. Thieves are locked up until the next migration and then are expelled from the community.

Ethan has been the commander in chief, the head general of the Protectorate, for as long as anyone can remember, although the ruling council has the right to relieve him of command at any time with a majority vote. Grace has been on the council for five years, McCann for two, and Clair for one.

Though many of my fellow soldiers still call me “Blackie,” since the prison raid it has become more an ironic term of endearment than an insult. My close association with Ethan seems to have earned the trust of some of them, and dozens tell me their stories, tales as varied as the faces of those who tell them. People from all credit levels, all backgrounds, and all parts of America Division and the world have come to the banner of the Protectorate, some because of Company injustices, some because they didn’t fit into the Company system, and some simply because they were sure there had to be something more than working their lives away just to get the next new IC.

The only thing I don’t learn is who or what “R” is, although from all the functions it accomplishes I determine that it must be a vast computer system. R adjusts the Company supply numbers when we steal food or medicine. R supplies the new identities and wireless security codes that mimic the cross implants when we go on missions within Company-controlled sectors. R provides maps and aerial views for the planning of missions. R alerts us of squad activity in our area. In short, R does almost everything, but the one time I ask Ethan about it, he blows off the question.

“Don’t worry about R, May. Worry about the mission.”

By the end of a week, I’ve learned almost everything about how the Protectorate operates. Though I repeatedly push the thought out of my mind, the fact is that I could return to Shaw and Blackwell now with enough information to wipe the Protectorate out forever. I’d be a hero within the Company. I’d get an immediate credit level raise, an even bigger and more luxurious apartment. And my future, as bright as it was before, would be blinding.

But now I know for certain that there’s no way I would ever go back. As I get to know more and more of the Protectorate’s members, I’m amazed to find that most of these “vile unprofitables” are actually wonderful, intelligent people. I’m amazed by their industry, their bravery, their fidelity, their ability to live so cheerfully under such hardship, and all right under the nose of the squadmen who would like nothing more than to see them all dead. Then there’s Ethan. He’s unfailingly kind and patient, and he shares so much with me that sometimes I get the feeling he’s deliberately sharing Protectorate secrets in an effort to demonstrate his trust for me. His ingenuity, patience, and faith astound me. And as more and more of his Merger Day plan takes shape, I can hardly wait to see how it will come off.

No, there’s no way I can leave and go back to the Company. Not now, not ever.

~~~

“Deeper, deeper,” calls McCann. His son steps warily back, pushing further into the woods. Finally satisfied, McCann throws the ball. It strikes his son in the chest and knocks him on his butt. Michel sits there for a second, not knowing whether to cry or laugh. When at last he decides on the latter, we all join in, me, McCann, and Ethan. Little Michel stands, picks up the ball and hurls it back to his father. It falls ten yards short.

This is only two days before the Merger Day operation. Preparations for the mission have filled almost my every waking hour, but all week, while eating, sleeping, and working out, my mind has unfailingly wandered back to Clair. Even now, playing football on this perfect, sunny day, I can’t help thinking of her. About her face, her skin. About the strange, almost familiar way she’d brush her hair out of her eyes. According to Ethan, she’ll likely be well enough to participate in the upcoming mission, but so far she hasn’t left the infirmary. And I haven’t gone back to visit her again, either. I’m probably more afraid of seeing her than I am of going into combat.

“May!” Ethan gets my attention just in time for me to catch the ball that was speeding for my head.

McCann is still helping little Michel off the ground.

“He’s not the sportsman his father is,” says McCann, shaking his head but smiling.

I roll out a few yards and rocket the ball at Ethan, who expels a little
oof
when it drills him in the gut.

“Now, May, she can throw!” McCann laughs. “Look at that arm, boy! That’s how I was telling you to do it!”

The kid nods dutifully.

“Oh, McCann,” I say, “lay off him.”

Ethan throws to McCann, who catches the ball gracefully with one hand.

This began as a scouting mission. Someone reported seeing footprints around here that looked like they belonged to a squad member, and Ethan decided to scope out the report. Turns out, the footprints were nothing. But we decided to play football, just in case.

This grove stands on the edge of a small lake. A few old, rotting beach cabins sit lifeless on the shore. A few others have already collapsed to the pine needle–laden earth. Once, this must’ve been a wonderful place.

I jump up and snatch a wildly errant pass from Michel.

“Good throw,” I say, and pass to Ethan. As he catches the ball, a question occurs to me. “So, Mr. General, Sir, were you an athlete in your school days?”

He glances at me and sidearms it to McCann. Right on the money.

“Can’t you tell?” he asks.

“Did you like school?”

“I’ve always loved learning.”

“Have you always hated the Company?”

Michel bobbles a pass. He picks up the ball and dusts it off daintily before throwing it to me.

“I always loved people,” says Ethan, “above any institution.”

It suddenly occurs to me that, as much as he’s shared with me about the Protectorate, he’s told me next to nothing about himself.

“Come on, Ethan,” I say, “do you always have to be so damned vague? Can’t you give me one concrete fact about yourself? I mean, anything! I don’t even know your favorite flavor of ice cream!”

Ethan only gives me his usual, inscrutable smile.

McCann laughs, juggling the ball from one hand to the other. “Give up now, May,” he jokes, and throws the ball to me.

I catch it, then press on: “Seriously, Ethan. You expect us to follow you to hell and back, and we don’t even know the name of your high-school crush, or what kind of a job you did before you became a rebel, or what kind of music you like!”

My throw hits Ethan in the chest. He catches it and passes to Michel.

“I like all kinds of music.”

“Tell me about your training,” I say. “How did you learn everything about weapons and tactics and fighting? What was it like, being trained by the Protectorate?”

“The same as how I’m training you.”

I grab Michel’s wobbling pass with my fingertips.

“Don’t take it personally,” McCann tells me, “he doesn’t trust anybody. Not even me, and I’ve saved his life. Three times.”

“Twice,” Ethan says, with a sidelong glance at McCann. Then, to me: “I prefer to remain mysterious.”

“Mysterious my ass,” I say. “Go deep. Deep, General. Come on, El Capitan, go deep! What, you think I throw like a girl? Come on!”

Ethan is backed up nearly to the lake and is still going. I cock back, take two hopping steps forward, and hurl the ball with all my might. It shoots into the sky in a great arc, passing miraculously through a mass of tree branches, and comes to rest—
splash
—ten feet past Ethan, in the lake.

“You do have one hell of an arm,” Ethan says with his amused grin.

“Come on, Michel!” yells McCann. “We’ll get the ball, come on!”

The boy and his father race to the water.

“Last one to the ball is a baboon’s ass!” says McCann. He kicks off his shoes, yanks off his shirt, drops his trousers, and yanks down his underwear. I gasp. Father and son, both naked, both laughing, splash into the water.

“Oh, my God, McCann!” I say, walking up to join Ethan at the shore.

Ethan looks at me, laughing. “He loves to do this.”

“I don’t know why you America Division people are so worried about clothes,” McCann shouts to us. “In my home, this is how we would always swim. Who brings a bathing suit everywhere?”

“What about pollution?” I ask, still laughing.

“If the world is polluted, we are polluted. If the world dies, we die anyway. I don’t pretend to be separate from the world. If she is poisoned, I jump in and be poisoned with her.”

Michel, giggling, splashes his father in the face. McCann splashes him back, then they both plunge deeper, chasing the drifting football.

I’m still laughing so hard tears are in my eyes. It’s so beautiful, father and son playing together like that. If only I could bring myself to jump in there with them.

“Catch!” yells Michel. He heaves the ball at us. It splats into shallow water at our feet, splashing Ethan and me.

We both laugh. With one hand, I reach down and touch the gun on my hip, making sure it’s still dry, then fish the ball out of the water. I dry it off on my shirt as Ethan and I stand there together, watching McCann and Michel wrestle in the water.

“By the way,” Ethan says, his eye catching mine, “Rocky Road.”