Broken (14 page)

"Sky—" she began. "Sky?"

"Go away, Sil," he said shortly. "I need to be alone."

She pulled up short. "I can’t fly."

"I don’t care," he barked. "Get out of my sight!"

Silverwyng did not cry, but simply walked down to her room. She opened the window and, without a thought, jumped out. She pushed off, trying to gain as much distance as she could.

She landed just outside the fence, and died at once. Her rebellious body knitted itself back together, and she awoke in agony. She crawled to an alley and hid.

They would come for her. There was an implant in her shoulder; they could track her.

She had a knife. She gritted her teeth and sawed her arm off. She passed out twice before she was done, but the arm finally fell free. She blacked out again, and awoke with her new arm half finished.

Broken stood unsteadily, and clutched Silverwyng’s arm in her hand. She threw it over the fence, back toward the Tower. With that, she walked off into the night.

* * *

Flip… flip…
the book slammed shut.

* * *

Broken roused herself. Michael and Monica sat beside her.

"You were crying," Michael said softly. "Are you all right?"

She nodded slowly. "I’m fine."

Monica quickly, almost dismissively, hugged Broken, as women sometimes hug one another for comfort and solidarity. Then she tried to let go, but Broken had wrapped her strong arms around her, burying her head on Monica’s shoulder.

Memory was...

If only she could cut it off, like the arm. If only…

[CHAPTER 14]

T
he news from the other refugees in the library hadn’t been encouraging. All mass transit had been shut down. All flights had been grounded. The Army and the Black Bands had set up checkpoints on all of the roads heading to and from the city.

"I heard a story," one old man whispered in Michael’s ear. "I heard that in one of the camps the Army set up, they started to check everyone’s ID. Anyone who was a UNP member had to stay in the camp. The rest were let go. And you know what happened next?"

"What?" Michael asked, dreading the answer.

"They started arresting ‘em. Some were shot right there."

"Where’d you hear that from?"

The old man was already turning, off to breathe his news in another ear, but not before Michael had glanced up at him. He’d tell that story until the day he died, about the government killing refugees. He would make it a little more dangerous each time, a little more obvious, a little worse.

Then the government would come and arrest him. He’d die in prison not long after. He’d never get to find out whether his story was true or not.

* * *

Broken had cheered up considerably, as far as they could tell, and changed Ian on her own. She did a good job.

"We used to help out with babies in the Tower," she muttered by way of explanation.

"You’ll have to tell us what it was like to live there, someday," Monica said.

Broken shrugged. Michael studied her, allowing the possibilities to form and swirl all around her. He had tried not to see what lay ahead since the last time, when the thin man had appeared in each…

—The thin man boarded his light, aerodynamic flyer and laughed. Ian was in his arms.

—"I’m just like you," the thin man said to Michael before he shot him.

—"I saw this coming. Why didn’t you?" said the thin man to Michael before he shot him.

—"Shut up!" screamed the thin man; he leveled his gun at Michael’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.

—The thin man said nothing, and shot Michael.

He was still there. Michael squeezed his eyes shut, blocking the visions out.

"We need to go," he said. "Now."

Monica looked at him. "Why not stay here?"

"
Trust
me," he seethed. "Let’s go."

They trusted him. Broken and Monica picked up what they had, Broken cradling Ian, and followed him out.

They trusted him, but they shouldn’t, he thought bitterly. He had no idea what to do next. He hadn’t seen anything but his own end at the hands of the thin man, all through the eyes of a Broken who didn’t exist yet. There was nothing else.

No move he made could be right. So what should he do?

Keep going, he told himself. Better to keep going. You’ll figure something out. For now, just keep moving.

* * *

They started walking south, towards New Jersey and the vast spaceport that occupied the Delmarva Peninsula. The weather was frigid, and slowly growing worse. Snow started to fall; first the odd flake, then a few more, and soon a full-blown blizzard.

"We need to find a place to stay for the night," Monica cried, straining to be heard over the howling wind.

"You don’t say," growled Michael, more to himself than Monica. She couldn’t hear him anyway.

* * *

The snow flew fast and thick. Michael leaned into the wind as they struggled to keep moving forward.

"Are we in New Jersey yet?" Broken asked. She was holding Ian inside her coat, pressed to her chest.

"Don’t know," Michael said shortly.

"Michael!" Monica called. "I think I see a house up ahead!"

And indeed, a soft yellow light could be seen through the blizzard.

* * *

Michael knocked at the door again.

A middle-aged woman opened it a crack. "What do you want?" she asked suspiciously.

"Please, can we come in?" Michael begged.

"Why are you out in this weather?"

"We’re refugees," Monica said. "From the city! Please."

The woman scowled. "Only criminals are refugees. The screen said so. You must be some of those UNP people. I’m not sharing my house with terrorists!"

"Wait!" Michael said. "We’re not—" But she had already slammed the door in their faces.

"Bet you didn’t see that coming, either," Monica sniped. "Now what?"

"I don’t see everything. Hey!" He pounded on the door. "Please!"

The woman opened the door a crack. "I’ve already called the police. Get lost."

* * *

They tried the next house, and the next. They were coming back down into a more populated area now, a small town somewhere in New Jersey, but the answer everywhere was the same: Go away. We don’t want refugees. We don’t want trouble. You’re probably criminals if you’re running.

"Damn Reformist sons-of-bitches," Monica swore. "This is all their fault, with their stupid propaganda!"

"Didn’t you say you really are a UNP member?" Michael asked.

"Maybe. Fuck you! You believe this, too?"

"No. But people would be right to be scared of hiding you."

She sighed, and had to agree that this was true.

They huddled against the side of a brick building for warmth.  "Why did we leave that library?" Monica complained. "What was the reason? So we could stay out here and die from the cold?"

"We won’t die from the cold," Michael said, although in truth he hadn’t checked. He was discovering he could block possibilities more effectively by simply keeping his eyes off everyone. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

"Come on," Broken said, standing up. "Snow’s bad. There’s places to go."

They walked along the backs of the buildings on the main street. Broken tried door handles, one after the other, but nothing opened. Up ahead, a restaurant’s lights glimmered invitingly.

"We need to eat," Michael said. "Come on. It’ll be warm."

"They might kick us out," Monica pointed out.

Michael reached up into his pant leg and pulled out one of the bills. "We’ll be fine. We’re paying customers."

 Monica stared at him in disbelief. "Why didn’t you mention that you had
money
before?"

"I thought I had," Michael said nonchalantly. "Besides, we haven’t really needed it yet. Come on, let’s go."

"Food," agreed Broken.

"We could have been staying in a
hotel
," Monica seethed. "We could have been eating
well
. I ought to kill you."

* * *

Even with a storm raging outside, the restaurant was full. A lot of the people sitting in the booths and at the counter looked like they’d seen better days. There were screens set up all over the place, showing images of the crisis.

"Terrorist actions in the cities of Chicago and Boston have been quelled," intoned an attractive man with perfect hair. He was one of the main newscasters for North America; people trusted him. He wore a tiny white star with black highlights on his lapel—a Reformist pin. That was new. "Other UNP-backed riots and terrorist actions are being contained in Los Angeles and New York. The Peltan Administration says it expects peace to return by the end of the day."

"About time," someone muttered.

"Across the world, the few riots that erupted in Asia and Australia were quickly subdued, and no further terrorist activity has taken place there. Australia is quiet at this hour, as the Peltan Administration prepares for the President himself to address an emergency session of the Senate tomorrow at noon Central Australian Time—ten o'clock tonight for our viewers here.. The Administration has issued a warning for any potential terrorists against taking action against government forces."

The scene shifted to a spokesman for the Administration, standing in front of an image of black-clad soldiers fighting. Words on the soldiers’ uniforms were barely but obviously visible: "Virtue, Honor, Loyalty, Strength." Others had simply "VHLS" on their helmets. The Reformist credo. The sternly handsome spokesman cleared his throat and spoke. He looked strong and resolute; his brows were knitted together, his jaw jutted out.

"These terrorists pose a threat to our most basic freedoms, and must be stopped. Rest assured that our government will not rest until they all have been killed or captured. Any and all UNP members are encouraged to voluntarily surrender to the government for a loyalty inspection. Most of you are innocent of any wrongdoing, and will be released quickly. However, we
will
find those who are guilty of aiding, abetting and, indeed,
becoming
terrorists. Those who do not comply will be assumed to be on the side of evil."

Someone snorted. His friend shushed him.

 "We understand that these are unusual measures. However, we have been elected to protect the security of humanity, and protect it we will. The moral and ethical deterioration of the core membership of the United Nations Party was completed when it rose up against the government it helped to found, and that rotting cancer must be expunged from the body of humanity."

He suddenly took on a softer tone, his eyes relaxing from their intense stare. Now he looked like a sympathetic boyfriend.

"We understand as well that many thousands of innocents and families have been displaced by this terrible crisis. Our hearts go out to them, and to them we say: Your government will be there. Already we have provided hundreds of thousands of tons of food for refugee camps. President Peltan cares about his people, and will see that they are well provided for. Thank you all."

The newsreader reappeared. "In other news, the Emperor of the Rogarians has sent a message communicating his hopes for peace on our world to all humans. The emperor says—"

A surly-looking waitress strode up to them. "Make it quick," she snapped. "You got money, right?"

"Right," Michael said.

"Extra charges today, to cover fees during the crisis.” Michael shrugged. Whatever. As long as they were warm and fed, it was worth whatever it cost.. “So what can I get you?"

They ordered. "Hey, can we have a bottle of warm milk for the baby?" Monica asked; Ian was crying, and other customers were starting to shoot glares their way.

"Can’t help you. Go next door, if they’re still open. Damn broke-ass refugees, they’re shutting everything down."

"I’d better go," Monica sighed, scooping up the wailing infant. "I’ll be right back."

"Maybe she’ll change him," Broken said.

Michael smiled back. "I sure hope so. I can’t stand that stink."

"Good thing he’s so important. I’d leave him in the river."

"Got that right," Michael said. "Hey, wait! You’re joking? You have a sense of humor?"

Broken shrugged. "Life sucks. So I laugh."

"That's a good way to be, I think," he nodded.

Broken leaned forward. "So. You have a plan? For getting you-know-where?"

Michael shook his head. "I have to level with you. I don’t. Besides walking, there’s little else for us to do. They’re distracted now, but as soon as things die down enough for us to use public transportation again, they’ll be back looking for us."