Z 2134 (3 page)

The Rock was a sprawling complex in the
beating heart of the City, its outside as sooty and black as the spirit inside.
The Rock was where they sent the children of State prisoners, and where Ana and
her 14-year-old brother, Adam, had been living for the past two months, ever
since her father had murdered their mother.

Ana was assigned to stay at Chimney Rock
until she turned 18 — six long months away. Only then would she be allowed to
claim custody of Adam, provided she earned her keep at the textile, where it
was her job to sew buttons onto shirts, all day, six days a week, 12 hours a
day, until her fingers were numb or throbbing. Usually both. As awful as the
throbbing was, most times Ana preferred it since it was better than the numb
which tricked her into thinking her fingers had disappeared. Where she’d go
after Chimney Rock was anybody’s guess, though.

Most likely, she’d have to move to the
Dark Quarter, the nearly lawless ghetto of City 6. In some ways, she wondered
if Adam would be better off staying on at the orphanage. Sure, he’d be
miserable, but at least he’d be safe, something she couldn’t guarantee in the
Dark Quarter.

A day never passed when Ana didn’t wish
she’d tested well for any other aptitude back when she was 15 and chose to test
for sewing, only because her friend Ginny Thompson thought it would be fun
working together. Ironically, Ginny failed the test and wound up working the
fields instead. How farming — being out in the open all day long — was what you
got when you failed, and being trapped inside a hot factory through nearly
every hour of sunlight was what you got when you passed, well, it seemed a
cruel joke to Ana.

Ana still remembered her mom
congratulating her when she was first awarded her placement at the textile
factory — as if she’d made a tremendous achievement and would thus be rewarded
with meaningful work. It was easy enough for her mom, who had been gifted at
planning and therefore landed a comfortable desk job with the City, as did her
father, who had worked all the way to Major at City Watch before the events
that changed all their lives.

The chants of “Jo-nah!” finally died
away, save for one lone screamer, a drunken, long-haired 18-year-old she’d
known all too well. Liam Harrow was tipping back his glass and going on long
past everyone else. He turned to Ana mid-swig, then turned his eyes back to the
screen. A second later he turned to Ana.

“What?” he said, a slur of hostility
thick in his voice. “Think you’d be happy your daddy made it to the Final
Battle.”

“Do I
look
happy?” Ana shot back.
“Don’t worry,” she added, “he won’t last five seconds against Bear.”

“Some way to talk about your father,”
Liam said, finishing his beer. He climbed from his stool, breaking rank with
his trio of drinking buddies, each of them ranging between 10 and 15 years
older than him, and each looking every bit as rough around the edges. Probably
Underground scum.

One of them, a red-haired, green-eyed man
with a thick beard, slapped a hand on Liam’s shoulder and said, “Leave her be,
Liam. Let’s watch the recaps.”

Liam shook his buddy’s hand away, then
glanced back as if to say, “Don’t fuck with me.”

Though Liam was younger than the others,
he was also in significantly better shape. Fighting shape, though Ana had
little doubt he’d be wearing a permanent ale gut by the time he was 25 — if he
lived that long, or didn’t wind up in prison. Or, even more likely, outside The
Wall. Liam had always been in trouble, and his father was a known troublemaker
before he killed himself, back when Liam was nine.

Michael started to stand as Liam
approached their table.

Ana put her hand over his, then shook her
head and said, “No. I’ll handle this.” She held his stare and made him silently
agree.

It wouldn’t do to have Michael playing
hero.

He was a gentleman — sweet, good looking
in a nice guy sorta way, and in excellent shape, but not a fighter. Liam,
especially drunk, could hurt him badly. If Ana were to lose Michael, she would
be friendless as well as motherless.

“Someone oughta teach you to respect your
elders,” Liam said, sauntering to their table, wearing a wide grin, as though
he had just finished a hysterical joke, with a punch line only he got.

“You’re only a year older than me, hardly
an elder,” Ana said, half-laughing, and only on the outside.

“I’m talking about Jonah,” Liam said,
looking down at Ana, while ignoring Michael entirely, which Ana was sure must
be digging under Michael’s skin. “You ought not to talk that way of your
father. He’s a good man.”

“Yeah, I suppose if you like murderers,”
Ana said. She glanced at her hands and forced herself to sip her sugar water
rather than give in to her mind’s usual tangent, which would start with the
many reasons she hated her father and end only after the exhaustive list was
finished and a new one, maybe the reasons he deserved to die, began.

Ana had plenty of feelings about her
father, but not a single one was any of Liam’s goddamn business.

“You still buying that bullshit about how
he killed your mom?” Liam shook his head. “Come on, Ana, you know better than
that. He was fucking set up.”

“Whatever,” Ana said, not wanting to get
into an argument or relate how she witnessed her father with her own two eyes.

It was, after all, her testimony that had
sent her father away. Ana was still considered a child, so that detail of the
famous case had been kept from the News Agency and off the public reels, though
she had assumed word had been whispered anyway. Perhaps not, if Liam didn’t
know.

Liam laughed, a drunken, almost
sick-sounding cackle, which quickly fell into a dry heave, like he was trying
to think of something more to say, maybe something clever, but couldn’t draw a
drop from the well. He raised a fist to his mouth, bit it, then turned from
their table and stormed back to the bar.

Ana watched as he marched off, surprised
when he suddenly spun back toward her and shouted, “You know, you really ARE a
brat!”

Ana’s mouth dropped open, shocked that
Liam had called her a “brat,” of all things. And the way he said it suggested
it wasn’t something that had just come to him — it was a long-held belief that
he’d thought a million times before that moment. She wasn’t sure which
surprised her more — that Liam thought she was a brat, or that he’d thought of
her at all. It wasn’t as if their paths crossed all that often. Liam hadn’t
gone to school with her since he was placed in The Orphanage almost a decade
ago. And they rarely saw each other outside of the occasional run-in at the
market or City Park, where she used to hang out before she had to start working
at age 17.

“I am not!” she snapped back, feeling her
face redden as her fists curled into balls beneath the table.

“Oh yes you are!” Liam said, cackling
like before, now louder. “Your father had nothing but the best things to say
about you, and you have the gall to sit here, sipping on your sugar water while
wishing him dead?
Dead?
You aren’t just a brat, Ana, you’re an
icy-hearted bitch.”

Ana was too shocked to do what she wanted
— punch the fucker right in either one of the fat sneering lips flapping from
the front of his smug mouth.

Michael leapt from the table and to Ana’s
defense. “She said to leave her alone!”

“Sit down, Michelle,” Liam snapped,
taking a long step toward Michael and shoving him hard toward his seat.

The nudge was just enough to send
Michael’s ass banging against the back of the booth, where he only stayed for a
second. Michael lunged from his sprawl, swinging before he was even standing.

Even drunk, Liam was too fast, deftly
stepping aside as Michael shot by and fell awkwardly to the ground. Scattered
laughter rippled through the bar.

Ana fumed, then stood and yelled, “Stop
it!”

Liam, whose back was to Ana as he waited
for Michael’s next move, turned to her, eyes wide, surprised by the sudden
outburst.

Their eyes met — his were icy blue but
blushed with spirits — locked in the realization that everyone in the bar was
staring at them, and that trouble was a coiled snake, ready to strike.

Liam’s friends were watching, but they
weren’t hooting or hollering, like most of the bar patrons. They seemed
concerned for their friend, and possibly worried about what he might do next.
They approached Michael as he stood, hands out, to show they hadn’t meant to
hurt him and wanted to sooth the situation before it escalated further.

The man with the light red beard said,
“Here, let me help,” as he extended a hand to Michael to help him off the
floor.

Liam took a step toward Ana, his eyes
dancing and cheeks twitching. “You really think he did it, don’t you?”

In that moment, for the first time since
Ana had seen her father standing over her mother’s dead body, a seed of doubt
was sprouting.

It made no sense, but hell if it wasn’t
germinating anyway. Maybe it was the conviction in Liam’s eyes.
How can he
be so certain of his innocence?
She wasn’t sure how he knew her dad, though
she had her suspicions, since her father was a rumored member of The
Underground.

What does Liam know that I don’t?

Michael yelled something at Liam’s
friends, shaking off their assistance. He took a few steps toward the bar,
grabbed a bottle from the counter, then raced toward Liam, bottle raised, ready
to attack from behind.

Ana’s eyes widened before her mouth could
warn Liam or stop Michael.

Liam was fluent in her look and spun
around just as Michael swung the bottle and connected with Liam’s forehead.
Glass shattered. Liam screamed as they both stumbled forward and fell to the
ground.

Ana jumped back, trying to figure the
best way to break up the fight.

Two seconds later, City Watch guards
burst into the bar — a pack of six, dressed in black, heavily armed, faces concealed
by impenetrable black enclosed helmets.

“Break it up,” one of the men ordered
through his helmet’s muffled speakers, masking The Watcher’s voice while adding
several layers of menace.

Michael and Liam both looked up,
surprised, then quickly untangled their fight.

The Watchers responded as if both were
still a threat, though.

A pair of Watchers thrust out their
safety sticks, connecting with Michael and Liam, sending them both into
writhing spasms, screaming on the floor from the electric current the sticks
sent through their bodies.

The Watchers then began swinging the
sticks as clubs, bashing both fallen men repeatedly.

Ana started toward them, as if she might
somehow talk some sense into The Watchers, but someone grabbed her by the
elbow. She turned, surprised. A black man in his mid-fifties with greying hair
and a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard was wearing the same serious look her
father often wore — a look that begged her to listen rather than run.

“Don’t,” was all he said, pulling her
toward the back of the bar, away from the cluster of Watchers surrounding
Michael and Liam.

“But — ”

“If you get involved, it’ll be way worse.
Just let The Watchers get their steam out, do what they’re gonna do, and
leave.”

“They’re hurting them,” Ana said,
defending not just Michael — who didn’t deserve to be beaten for helping her — but
also, to her surprise, Liam, even though he had started the fight.

“Yes, but they’ll kill you, Anastasia.”

How does he know my name?

She looked closer at the man. He was
dressed just like anyone else in the bar, a working man’s unofficial uniform:
plain blue jeans and a button-down, long-sleeve gray shirt. Nothing fancy or
which stood out enough to impress the few women mingling in the bar.

Yet he seemed strangely familiar.

“Trust me,” he said.

A shout of, “Let go of me!” — though Ana
couldn’t tell if it was Liam or Michael since it was slightly higher pitched
than either guy’s normal tone — pulled her attention back to The Watchers as
they slapped black cuffs on Michael and Liam, roughly lifted both men to their
feet, and marched them out the door.

Ana turned back to the man.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “They’ll book
them as drunks then let ’em out in the morning.” He shook his head. “Unless one
of them does something stupid. I’m sure Liam won’t do anything stupid. He’s
been through the system a few times and knows how, and who, to charm when he
needs to. How about your guy?”

So he knows Liam. He’s one of The
Underground, I’ll bet.

Figures.

Ana screamed, this man now the new target
of her anger. “I dunno, but he didn’t deserve this! He was standing up for me
against that drunk!”

The man opened both hands, waving them
downward. “Keep it down, will ya?” His eyes flitted to the bar. Ana followed
his gaze. Two Watchers were still in the bar, questioning patrons. One of the
officers stood by the door, turning away two men trying to leave.

“They’re gonna question all of us,” the
man said, clearly frustrated. “I suggest you stick to what happened and try to
stay calm. Don’t mention your father unless they mention him first. Of course,
once they get your name from your chip, they’ll know who you are and link you
to Jonah. So, whatever you do, don’t lie. They’ve got scanners in their helmets
to see if you’re telling the truth.” He cleared his throat as though it add a
layer of importance to his words. “You have to tell them the truth.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Just do what I say. Go sit and wait for
them to come to you. I’ll catch up with you, soon as I can.” The man turned,
walked toward the bathrooms, then disappeared into the men’s room.

Ana looked around, noticing one of the
men at the bar talking to a Watcher and pointing at her.