Blood Zero Sky (26 page)

Without hesitation, Ethan pushes through the front doors, and we all follow outside. Some of the smoke from the grenade attack has dissipated now, and the carnage on the street is apparent. Hundreds of squadmen lie dead or dying, some of them crushed beneath the twisted remains of their blasted vehicles. A few straggling survivors open fire on us, only to be taken out. Others simply run or take ineffectual potshots from their covered positions.

Ahead, the great, gothic spire of Trinity Church rises before us. As we turn left down Broadway, heading south, I catch a glimpse of movement above and look up to see our air force in flight. Clair follows my gaze upward and gasps in wonder.

The same seven rebels who perpetrated the surprise attack with the rocket-propelled grenades have launched hang gliders from their rooftop positions and are now following us, covering our retreat from above. The wings of the gliders are red, white, and blue in a pattern of stars and stripes. Curious faces peer out the windows surrounding us and point upward at them, their eyes wide with amazement.

At Morris Street, our ranks swell with twenty or so rebels who were stationed there to cover our retreat. So far, resistance has been meager—half the enemies that came to oppose us have already been taken out by machine-gun fire or grenades dropped by our makeshift air force. But as we approach the intersection of Broadway and Battery Place, I can see the flashing lights of squad trucks ahead, forming a blockade. Worse, the chugging of helicopters becomes audible and grows steadily louder.

At the head of our column, however, Ethan doesn’t slow.

“Keep moving!” he shouts. “We have to break through their position.”

We weave through a gridlock of mostly abandoned cars as we approach the enemy, hoping to keep some measure of cover, but when they open fire, it seems like a wave of lead is washing over us. The men on both sides of me fall dead before they even get off a shot. Several others try to stop and take cover, but Ethan shouts, “Keep going!” and redoubles his pace, and the rest of us follow suit.

Several rocket-propelled grenades from our air force zip down on the blockade ahead of us, but one misses altogether, and the other two are only partial hits that don’t completely destroy their targets.

“C team! Now!” Ethan shouts into his IC. At first, it seems like nothing happens, then I see a dozen or so rebels stream out from behind a building ahead and to our right and open fire on the squad’s position from behind. Instantly, the enemy fire lessens considerably as the squadmen turn to face this new attack.

But we have another problem. Two helicopters race up on us from behind, their cannons thundering, blasting small craters in the street behind us. Two gliders get hit by fire from the choppers and come tumbling from the air to the street below.

Still, Ethan keeps up his relentless pace. I change my clip on the run and continue firing as we overtake the line of squad trucks and meet up with the C team on the other side. Ahead is the grassy expanse of Battery Park, and I race toward it on aching legs. The once-green park is now a wasteland of brown grass and dead trees, but I hardly see anything except the ground before me as I try to rush ahead at full speed without tripping and falling on my face.

Another glider flitters to the ground on my left, its wing aflame. One of the choppers races ahead of us then wheels around, ready to open fire and head off our escape, but one of our glider-borne soldiers slams it with a rocket-propelled grenade, a direct hit, and it drops out of the sky. We skirt the burning wreckage, running faster than ever now, as, from behind us, the gunshots of squadmen pursuing us on foot ring out.

Fortunately, our destination is just ahead: Castle Clinton, a former fortress from the War of 1812 and our rendezvous point, awaits. My legs are burning with exertion, my heart aches in my chest, and my legs are cramping, but my yearning for survival outweighs my need for rest. Above, there are three helicopters now strafing us with their machine guns, and a woman to my left takes a shot to her thigh that almost takes her whole leg off. Per Ethan’s orders, I don’t stop to help her. With a wound like that, she’ll bleed out in a matter of minutes anyway.

As we near the fort, a new barrage of rocket-propelled grenades erupts from atop its brick walls, and two of the pursuing choppers fall in flames. The third wheels around in retreat. A dozen or so rebels stationed on the rooftop of the fortress cover our retreat, their withering machine-gun fire causing the squadmen still pursuing us to fall back. Only one of our glider troops remains, and as I watch, he descends gracefully inside the walls of the fort.

In a matter of minutes, we are all assembled at the edge of the water, staring at a white, wooden ferryboat tied up at the breakwater.

“You’re kidding me, Ethan,” Grace growls, aghast. “You expect us to escape in
that
?”

I’m feeling the same way. Ethan never told me his plan after this point. We were to escape to the water, to the southern tip of Manhattan, that’s all I knew. But how we’re supposed to outpace a bunch of helicopters in a ferryboat, I can’t imagine.

“Get on the boat or stay here,” Ethan says dismissively. “Your choice” and he embarks, followed by McCann, who’s still holding William Yao at gunpoint. One by one, the men follow him across the gangplank. Grace groans and follows too, and in a matter of seconds we’ve pushed off from shore and are chugging into the open water. But the battle isn’t over. I can see three more helicopters already coming over the horizon, and in the distance, a squad boat approaches.

Ahead, I can see an island with a square structure of brown stone standing upon it, and I remember my dad, on our only visit to N-Hub 2 together, telling me that a statue of Lady Liberty used to stand there—until the Company had it melted down to reuse its valuable copper.

As we press out into the open water, I go to stand near Ethan and McCann at the stern of the boat. We’re all watching another wave of deadly squad choppers approach when Yao addresses me.

“You’re May Fields,” he says, a mixture of astonishment and disgust in his voice.

“That’s right,” I say.

“You’re one of them,” he says. I can’t tell from his tone if it’s a question or a statement.

“I am,” I say. And I can’t deny the pride I feel. I’m telling the truth; I am one of them. Somehow, I always was. And I always will be.

“You have to be the dumbest woman alive,” he mutters, shaking his head.

The choppers are making a pass at us, and Ethan and McCann engage them with their machine guns.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m dumb? Why’s that? Because I don’t want to live my life a slave?”

“No,” he says, grinning now. “Because your revolution is going to fail.”

The next second seems to happen in slow motion. Yao reaches into his jacket pocket and comes out with a small pistol. Ethan and McCann, distracted by the helicopter, don’t even notice as he levels the gun at the back of Ethan’s head. I’ve already set my machine gun down—there it is, sitting in a chair three feet away.

“The Company always wins, May,” Yao says, and his eyes flick from me to his target.

What happens next is pure reaction. Hardly a second elapses, hardly a thought crosses my mind. In one fluid, flawless motion I draw the white pistol at my hip and pull the trigger, just like Ethan taught me. Red explodes from the young man’s head, and he falls backward against the stern rail in a heap.

Ethan and McCann both turn back to face me, looking from me to Yao.

“He pulled a gun,” I explain. But there’s no time to talk about it. The choppers are making another pass.

“Up to the bow, now,” Ethan shouts to McCann and me, and he herds us forward, to a staircase that leads below deck. The rest of the force, apparently, descended while I was distracted by our prisoner. It seems a little strange that the lower decks of a wooden ferry would be made out of steel, but I don’t think too hard about it—until Ethan turns back and closes a huge, steel hatch behind us and seals it by turning a metal wheel.

Above deck, I can hear the ferry being rattled by machine-gun fire and a single rocket blast.

When a light above the door glows green, Ethan shouts, “Dive!”

The sound of the engine changes and I can tell that we’re moving. The roar of the helicopters fades, then disappears. Finally, I understand what’s happening, and when I ask Ethan he confirms it. The upper part of the boat was just a shell, made to conceal a submarine beneath. Right now, the squad thinks they sunk the boat and killed us. By the time they learn the truth, we’ll be long gone.

“Where did we get a submarine from?” Clair asks.

“That’s the fun part,” Ethan says. “We stole it from Black Brands.”

“Who pulled that off?” Grace asks. “Oh, let me guess,
R
.”

I’m beginning to surmise that whenever Ethan doesn’t want us to know how something was accomplished, he just tells everyone that R did it.

“That’s right, it was R,” he says, “but R isn’t the hero today. All of you are. This is a victory that will be remembered for generations to come, and it was your bravery that made it happen.”

We all celebrate differently—some with laughter, some with tears, some with an intense, contemplative silence. The sole-surviving glider pilot, Aziz, drinks a bottle of champagne he found on board and passes out. Many don’t crack a smile until after we’ve made it safely to our pick-up point somewhere on the shore of the former state of New Jersey, where the supposedly missing team of twenty soldiers awaits with another set of squad vehicles in which to drive us back to camp.

Me, I’m smiling until we do our head count. Of the one hundred souls that embarked on our mission, seventy-three will be returning alive, and six of those are wounded. Still, the battle was much more costly for the Company, Ethan reminds us. In his estimation, the squadmen probably took one hundred casualties or more, while no one saw any civilians who were hurt or injured.

When we return to camp, we are greeted as heroes, showered with wine and champagne (what little the Protectorate has of it, anyway) and treated to a feast. Ethan is lifted on the shoulders of his army and carried around the camp while guitarists and fiddlers play him a happy tune. With the music, my exhaustion and sadness fade away. The strike was a triumph. We all behaved with incredible bravery. And Ethan, our kind and brilliant leader—I’d be willing to follow him anywhere.

—Chapter Ø19—

Ethan stands facing the wall-mounted imager screen
in the council room, the American flag and the flag with the coiled snake hanging on the wall at his back. He wears an impeccable blue military uniform Ada apparently sewed for him. Standing there, his shoulders back, head held high, he looks distinguished, dashing, and thoroughly ready to be inaugurated the president of a new United States of America. But if the man Ethan is teleconferencing with on the imager has his way, he’ll certainly die first.

“I’m sure we can come to some peaceful accommodation,” Blackwell says, managing to sound both cordial and irritated at once. “You’re not the first person to express discontent with the Company, Mr. Greene. But this is a business, not a government. We don’t participate in wars. When we see an enemy, we don’t fight them. We propose a merger. That’s what the Company is willing to offer you today. A competitive compensation package in exchange for laying down your arms.”

“It’s General Greene,” Ethan corrects, “and I have to disagree with you. The Company certainly does participate in wars. It participated in a good many of them before it took over half the world, and it’s participated in even more of them since. Just because nobody knows about a war doesn’t make its victims any less dead, Mr. Blackwell. And as for your offer of a merger, I’m afraid we will remain, now and forever, independent.”

McCann and I, pressed to one side of the room with the rest of the council, grin at one another, thrilled with Ethan’s eloquence.

Blackwell merely scowls. “I think you owe it to yourself, if not to your people, to at least come in and meet with me to discuss it,
General
.” There’s a note of condescension in the last word, but Ethan ignores it.

“Thank you, but again I’m going to have to decline,” he says.

“Then what exactly do you want? Everyone has a price. Name yours and let’s be done with it.”

Ethan nods. “Of course. My price is the dissolution of the Company into no less than one hundred thousand individual, competing businesses. My price is the reestablishment of the democratic government of the United States of America, and the disbanding of the security squads. In short, Mr. Blackwell, my price is your unconditional surrender.”

Blackwell shakes his head. Clearly, it’s all he can do to keep his anger in check. “Your precious government didn’t work before. What makes you think it will work now?” he says.

“We’ve learned our lessons, Mr. Blackwell,” Ethan replies. “We won’t take it for granted this time.”

Blackwell sits up straighter at his desk. “Of course, the Company utterly rejects your ridiculous demands. You leave me no choice but to come and wipe you out, Greene. Certainly you know that I can do it. The only reason we haven’t done it before was the expense. It wasn’t in the budget. Now it is.”

For the first time in the conversation, a chill of fear rises up my spine.

“I expected no less, Mr. Blackwell. Please pass a message along to your squadmen for me. Any of them who quit now will be spared. The Protectorate has no desire to harm people who are simply trying to make a living within the tyrannical system you’ve created. But anyone who takes up arms against the free people of America can expect to forfeit his or her life.”

Finally, Blackwell erupts into laughter. “Lord, man. You must’ve been an actor before you turned unprofitable,” he says. “Do you seriously think you stand a chance against us?”

When Ethan doesn’t reply, Blackwell leans in. “We’ve infiltrated your outfit, you know. I have a spy ready to serve you up to me on a silver platter.”

Ethan glances over and motions for me to come forward. My heart racing, I hurry to his side and face Blackwell, trying to match Ethan’s calm, regal deportment.

“Well. May Fields,” Blackwell says dryly.

“She’s not going to turn on us, Blackwell,” Ethan says. “You have no spy. And soon, you’re going to be out of a job, my friend. On this day, the Protectorate, on behalf of the United States of America, officially declares war on N-Corp.”

Blackwell is no longer smiling, but he doesn’t exactly seem intimidated, either. “Alright,” he says, glancing from me to Ethan. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

~~~

The rest of the afternoon the imager drones on, showing re-edited clips from Ethan’s conversation with Blackwell, making Ethan look like a moron rather than the brilliant leader we all know him to be. More often than anything else, they show the part where I enter the scene, looking thinner than usual, with the ugly cross scar on my cheek. My expression on the imager screen is a strange mixture of defiant bravery and green-faced nervousness. Overall, it’s pretty embarrassing.

Fortunately nobody in the camp is watching it now; we’re all too busy. Packs are being stuffed, bedrolls rolled. Crates of guns are readied for transport. Our miniature city almost buzzes with the kinetic energy of hundreds of rebels, all working to strike camp as quickly as possible.

I was to receive my official commendation today for shooting William Yao and saving Ethan’s life, which was to include a solemn and secret ceremony. Instead, Ethan simply hands me one of the Protectorate’s trademark white pistols with my name etched on one side of the grip and the word “heroism” etched on the other, shakes my hand, then unceremoniously orders me to start stacking boxes of ammo.

There’s no time to be disappointed, though. The revolution is finally beginning.

When I corner Ethan later and press him for details of our strategy going forward, his answer is typical Ethan: cryptic. “All-out war,” he says.

From what I can gather, the plan, which has been in place for over a year now, is actually nearly as simple as that. In every hub city, members of the Protectorate have secretly been building up strength. Now that the final merger has been announced, they have four days to organize and gather their forces. At sunset of the fourth day, they are to strike a list of pre-selected targets. Some squad-related sites such as satellite control and relay stations are so heavily fortified that it’s unlikely they’ll be successfully destroyed. Other targets, like imager studios and power stations, will be easier to hit.

On the fifth day, all the groups of rebels will meet our main group at a predetermined location to make preparations for the larger battles to come. The primary objective of this mission is to create enough of an impact on Company operations that they will have to at least acknowledge that some damage has been done, and thereby inspire workers around the world to take action. All this must be accomplished while avoiding catastrophic numbers of casualties. And, as always, innocent lives are to be spared.

There’s another key part of the plan that I’ve heard mentioned on several occasions: the Protectorate Education Initiative. No one seems to know what it is exactly, but from what I can tell, it’s a secret effort that’s somehow meant to get word out to everyone in the Company at once and inspire them to take action. Ethan seems to have high hopes for this part of the plan, but rumor has it that whatever it is has been under development for months and still isn’t finished.

Regardless of what our plans are, it’s clear that months, probably years of arduous and deadly struggle lie ahead.

“It’s hard to say what will happen when we confront the Company directly,” Ethan confides to me. “But the time to strike is now, before the two Companies’ forces are completely consolidated. With any luck, we’ll be able to capitalize on some confusion while they merge their security systems. Even so, it’s a huge gamble. If they have half the weapons they’re rumored to have, it could be very bad for us. It’s a tough plan, but it’s all we’ve got.”

I nod and smile. “I’m in,” I say.

But, in his uncanny way, Ethan sees through me.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing, it’s just . . . ”

I can’t tell him what I really think. Despite our victory at the prison and the triumph on Wall Street, I can’t help but remember McCann’s imager footage, a whole village dead. I can’t help but flash back to the catacombs of Black Brands, stuffed with thousands of wicked weapons that the Company hasn’t even used yet. The truth is, I spent last night awake, thinking about our prospects for victory, and they don’t seem very good.

When I did sleep, my dreams were disturbing. In them, I went back to the Company. My father embraced me and gave me a promotion. Jimmy Shaw interviewed me on an imager. I went back to the comfort of my apartment—my divine shower, my heavenly bed. And I was happy. I watched on the imager as the squads raided the rebel hideout, burned it down to nothing, while I sat on my N-Lux suede couch eating sushi. And I was happy. Happy I went back to the Company. Happy I was alive. Because in my dream, I always knew the Company would win.

My waking self is just confused. Of course, I can’t tell Ethan all that, but he is my friend, and I feel compelled to tell him how bleak I feel our chances are.

“Ethan,” I sigh. “You know I’ve always been the biggest fighter around. I mean, back when I was with the Company, I was so miserable that I spent most days fantasizing about beating the hell out of somebody. But lately, since I’ve been hanging around with these things all day . . . ” I hold up a book I’m reading. “I don’t know . . . I’ve been reading about Martin Luther King Jr. and his nonviolent methods of protest, and about the labor movement, which sometimes was very violent but was still rooted in just standing together, being united, and I was thinking . . . ”

“You think we could change things without fighting?” Ethan says.

Yes. Because there’s no way we can beat them in a battle, Ethan. No way on earth.
Instead, I say, “I don’t know. I wish there was another way. What do you think?”

He puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s my nature to recoil at any touch, but I force myself to stay still.

“I feel the same way you do, May. And perhaps there was a time when everything could have been changed without violence. But I’m afraid that time has long passed.”

“You’re right,” I answer grudgingly.

“You know, May,” he says, “I like you.” There’s nothing romantic or sexual in the way he looks at me—if anything, his demeanor is fatherly, though he can’t be much more than seven years older than me. “If you think of an easier way, let me know, alright? I would love to hear it.”

His dry humor makes me smile, and my smile makes him laugh. In a second, we’re both cracking up. It feels good to laugh, even in the face of Armageddon.

~~~

I’m fifteen years old. In the last few months, I’ve been raped and I’ve betrayed the love of my life. I’ve been sent to boarding school, and I’ve been raped. My mother is dead and my father is an absent workaholic. In my loneliness, in my pain, I turn to the only person I have left: Randal.

I show up at his door at eight o’clock on a stormy Wednesday evening. Even though his apartment’s IC system should have alerted him that I was outside, he still looks wide-eyed as he opens the door and finds me standing, drenched, on his stoop.

“Hi, May. What—?” he begins, but stops as I nearly fall toward him through the doorway. He flinches, clearly expecting me to punch him in the nose, but instead my arms encircle his neck. I bury my face in his shirt.

“She’s gone,” I sob. “She’s . . . she’s gone.”

“What do you mean? Who’s gone?” he says, putting his arms tentatively around me. But he knows very well who’s gone. Kali.

“We did it, Randal. It’s all our fault.”

He leads me inside, and after taking a quick glance out in the hallway for any HR watchers who might be lingering nearby, he closes the door. I let him lead me toward his bedroom.

Thank God, his parents aren’t home to see my meltdown. They’re at work, as usual.

He sits me down on the bed.

“It’s okay, May. We did what we had to do.”

I shake my head, sending a shower of tears across my lap. “No,” I whisper. “No, no. We destroyed her.”

Only now do I glance around the room. Everything is all packed up in a series of plastic boxes and shiny, silver garbage bags. In my distraught state, it takes me a moment to comprehend what all the boxes are for, and then I realize. He’s packing for Cranton. The opportunity of a lifetime. The opportunity he betrayed Kali to get. Suddenly, my hatred shifts from myself to him.

He seems to sense the change and puts both his hands on my shoulders, gently keeping me from rising to my feet. “May,” he says softly. “We didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Violently, I shrug out of his grasp, push my way back further on the bed. “But we did,” I hiss. “We did hurt her. And her family.”

Randal is shaking his head. “It had to be done, May. Blackwell told me everything. Her dad was part of some rebel group. He wanted to destroy the Company.”

My sadness and fury suddenly abates like the stillness after a storm, leaving me utterly empty. Outside, a constant rain patters against the windowpane, a lulling sound.

“It had to be done, May. If we didn’t do it, someone else would have.”

Randal is close to me now, his handsome face inches from mine. He tenderly brushes one strand of drenched hair out of my eyes. And suddenly, I understand. I understand why he’s been calling and emailing me, ever since he realized I was mad at him about Kali. I understand why he’s been my most persistent friend—the only one who would put up with my fearsome moods for the last three years. I understand. He really is in love with me.

And, I realize, he’s the only one. Even if Kali reappeared, she’d never forgive me if she knew the truth. My mom is gone. Dad might as well be. Randal is it—the only one. I’m crying again, so lost in thought that I hardly feel his lips on mine, hardly notice as he slips my shirt up over my head.

Randal isn’t like Kali, my beautiful goddess of fire. He isn’t like the squadmen, either, brutal, violent, and demeaning. He’s gentle. Sweet. Still, I don’t look at him as he kisses my neck. I watch the raindrops trace their way down his bedroom window and wonder if I’ll ever feel happy again.

For a week after that night, Randal calls me every day, and every day I ignore him. The messages and e-mails he sends me talk about us dating, about him being my boyfriend. Yeah, right. Even after he ships off to Cranton, I get the occasional message from him, but I never, ever write back.