Fall of the Iron Gods, page 4
Until then, I’d forgotten about my bloody nose and bruised face. No wonder I got the stares. Glancing up at the leadership table, Bastian, head of the Tech Crew, looks like he has somewhere else to be, but then again, his brain is probably working out a million equations at once, with his neural augments boosting his mind. Bone Breaker wears her hair in tight braids, and like everything about her, she’s intimidatingly perfect. She is General Shankar’s colleague from the African Province who heads combat training for the Assault Crew. Poonam Auntie sits with a few techs from the Tech Crew, which includes design and deployment of weapons, replacements, transports, and medicine.
The three of us take in Bastian. He’s inspecting his food with his spoon, like the daal in his bowl offends him.
Zami says, “He’s odd, right? How’s the training going?”
My stomach twists. “Terribly. He’s got this spider mech and . . .”
Synch interrupts, “Ashiva is going to lead the Assault Crew.”
I hit him in the arm, too hard. “No, I’m not.” I hope no one heard him. General Shankar should lead, Commander Decker should lead. I should just punch when they tell me to. “Just a lieutenant.”
Rubbing his arm, Synch says, “It’s inevitable. You’re a boss.”
Zami’s eyes widen. “Oh, sister. That’s great news! You’ll be awesome.”
Saachi appears and slides her tray along the metal table. “What are you goondas talking about?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Everything,” Zami chirps. “Our girl is going to be a commander one day. All grown up.” He fights back fake tears.
Another boy, Rao, joins the table, salutes me poorly and says, “Daal today, guys. I’m so excited.”
“Hey, bhai. But isn’t it daal most days?” Synch makes room for him to sit.
“Yeah, I know. But still.” The kid’s bushy brows make him appear older, but he’s much younger than Taru. Rao’s baggy jumpsuit falls over his body like a sack, but he’ll grow into it one day. “Hey, anyone know if they brought the new Mecha Wars on the last supply run?”
I say, “No, Rao. It’s not coming. Video games never come. Only essentials.”
“It is essential.” He sighs. “A boy’s gotta dream. I’ve heard it’s the best one yet.”
The holo-screen in the mess hall projects a curated Info-Run the Red Hand pulls from global feeds: updates about the Alliance Space Colony, the various shuttles heading to connect with it from the Provinces around the planet, the South Asian Province’s Mokṣa Raptor V, their pride and joy. And detailed visual plans of the Colony show us an image we’ve all seen a thousand times.
I’m glad someone turns the volume up so I don’t have to talk about my conflicted feelings on becoming a leader, as they all are hollow, knowing my sister is on a dangerous mission, and I’m sitting here stuffing my face in the safe mountain base.
“Yeah, while everyone is dying, let’s shoot some rich people into space.” I flip off the screen.
“Actually, not a bad idea,” Zami says.
“So long as they don’t leave everyone on the planet to starve,” I add. “But I guess that’s what food pods are for.”
A member of Planet Watch makes a statement about how there should be oversight, to allow each Province a shuttle, but they’re shot down by a politician who cites the New Treaty and spouts off about show every Province has a chance at success and can buy seats on other shuttles if they can’t afford their own. It cuts to a discussion between two pundits about the western pipeline that failed recently and how it will not be repaired to bring energy into the South American Province as promised.
“They’re keeping it all for themselves,” Synch says.
News about the Red Hand, Lal Hath, Die Rot Hände, Mano Roja, Hóng Shôu, is translated into multiple languages at the bottom of the screen. The PAC has reframed the offsite explosion and the Narrows catastrophe as an “unfortunate event caused by a rebellion.” They go on to discuss how this spurred new policies regarding terrorism.
“Way to shove that under the rug. What about the children they stole to test the vaccine? What about rounding up poor people with their mechs?” I hear screams and gunfire. Damn, the past is always just one bad trigger away.
A reporter says the PAC Security Council is overseeing the SAP’s attempt to root out the Red Hand and all their illegal operations. The holo-screen cuts to a scene at the PAC’s Planetary Capitol Building in Greenland as the General Assembly comes together for the summit. PAC President Orion Liu greets each member as they enter the facility. A member of the PAC Security Council, Undersecretary Ambrose Qazi waves to the UAV cameras and flashes a smile; his bright blue suit is hard to miss. Carefully coiffed members of the Economic & Social Council shuffle past Liu.
“They look well fed,” Saachi says. “I thought vampires only drank blood.”
We all laugh even though it’s clear: they’re searching for us. Suddenly these concrete and rock walls of the old base don’t seem so thick.
Zami comments, “They’re out for blood one way or the other. Things are moving fast with the Alliance Space Colony. They must be up to something.”
“We need to find out,” I say.
Saachi says, “It’s the PAC I’m most worried about. How they’ll continue to govern on the Space Colony. Will they employ some kind of automated system? Their twisted version of meritocracy in space will be a nightmare.”
An Assault Crew kid named Gunnar, with a tattooed neck and angelic face, lingers nearby. I wouldn’t mind except he’s picking his teeth with a pocketknife, which is all sorts of messed up.
Synch notices me looking at Gunnar and says, “Just ignore him.”
“Oye, Chrome Tiger, is it? How’s it feel?” Gunnar asks.
“How’s what feel?” I reply stupidly, realizing too late that I just took the bait.
“To jump the line,” he says, and his friends at a nearby table whisper and whistle, while the rest of the room continues to eat and chat. When Gunnar turns toward me, I notice his broken arm wrapped in a permanent flex cast. Dhat. Must have been prepped for replacement surgery.
My bionic hand tightens around my aluminum cup of water, but I don’t bend or break it. I don’t want trouble. Can’t get negative scores, especially with the higher-ups watching. Better that he just leaves me alone. But I also can’t risk looking weak around these sharks. General Shankar’s likely judging me by my leadership skills. What would he do with a jerk like this? Can’t imagine he’d just sit and take it. I know the type. People like Gunnar circle around you annoyingly, until one day, they take a big bite out of your side and you bleed out.
Synch catches my gaze and silently pleads with me. He doesn’t know how this works. Posh Uplander with no experience in the streets. “You’re confident for someone without much field experience,” I tell Gunnar.
Gunnar puts his hand on his table his friends are at and glares. “That arm was mine before you got here with your uppy spy boyfriend.”
“Relax, bro,” a girl named Maya puts her hand on Gunnar’s. “Don’t want to spill my lunch, G.”
A twinge of guilt flashes in my chest. Not enough to give him the SynGen; not bad enough to take his crap lying down. But enough to not want to bash him around with it though. I’d be pissed too if some kid walked in and took my replacement.
“Sorry, wasn’t my choice.” It’s not an easy thing for me to say, not that they’d notice.
“You can keep your sorry, street drek. You and your mongrel crew. Especially your sister. What’s her name? Taru. Right. With her new legs. You’re expensive street rats.”
I stand, and Synch backs up to give me space.
“You can take shots at me all you like, bhoot boy. But don’t mess with my family unless you want a go.”
Some of the crew members are hard-core, at least the ones from the wealthier Provinces. They’ve had rigorous training since they were young. But their connection to rebellion is different than ours. They and their families chose to fight even though they could afford not to. They’re always outfitted in shiny new gear even though very few run missions. Their replacements are different: more precise, subtle, installed less out of necessity and more as augments or upgrades, like enhanced sight through opti-links, embedded weapons, and the like. They talk big, act foolish. But one rule is the same everywhere: fight or die—there’s no possibility of surrender.
“Careful.” Gunnar makes like he’s going to throw hands.
“You know what’s funny about this chip on your shoulder? You think you’re so much better than us, so righteous. But where were you and your team when the South Asian Province let us starve?” The whole mess hall is listening now, and I’m glad for it. “Where were you and your wealthy counterparts when they took the children to a prison camp and used them as guinea pigs? You want pity because you didn’t get the upgrade you were promised, bhoot? I helped build my first arm and assisted in the installation when I was ten. If you want my SynGen, go ahead and take it from me.” Take it, please.
Gunnar pushes his chair, and it clatters to the floor. The Red Hand Coalition leaders watch. All except Bastian, who left the room—probably a wise move.
“Ashiva, maybe there’s another way,” Synch whispers to me.
I don’t flinch. “So, what’s it going to be?” I flex my bionic arm and aim my fist at Gunnar. A scope from my built-in gun lifts, the motor spins and sets to stun. Whoa, that’s new.
“Yeah, I can take you and your traitor boyfriend. Should drop him in the Barrens for what his mother does.”
Gunnar’s crew stands. Synch, Saachi, Zami, and Rao surround me, along with a bunch of my friends from the Children of Without. My crew snarls and makes mean faces at Gunnar, who pretends to be amused. Each of them is probably hiding a weapon in their pockets, blades tucked in their sleeves. Baby scorpions are more poisonous than adults because they have to be. “This is ridiculous. Now you’ve ruined my meal.” Gunnar pushes his food away.
His friends are edgy, but he’s just shady enough to push right up to the threshold of reason. Maya says, “Seriously, brother. At least start the fight outside.”
He snorts, “Eh, you’re not worth it. None of you are.”
As he turns to walk away and I sit back down, an aluminum plate spins through the air and nails Gunnar in the back of the head.
“Oh, oh no.” Rao’s hand is empty. “I didn’t think I’d be able to hit him. I’m just so mad.”
Synch pushes Rao behind him. It’s unclear whether Gunnar saw his assailant or now thinks Synch tossed a plate at him, but it doesn’t really matter. When something catches fire, it doesn’t ask permission, it just burns.
Gunnar and his crew descend on me and my friends. The entire mess hall devolves into a brawl. At one point, Gunnar climbs over a table to get at me and takes a couple swings, but he’s out of his league. Maya manages to land a punch square on my back. Synch takes some hits and delivers a few to Gunnar’s crew. It’s a wild, dizzy mess.
The whole thing only lasts a few minutes before we’ve managed to turn the place inside out. Suddenly, an alarm pierces our eardrums. We hit the ground. I wonder if my ears are really and truly bleeding.
Bastian is holding a metal sphere in his hand. He’s wearing ear coverings, as are the rest of the Red Hand leaders. It must be a new riot control weapon. He turns it off, and we’re taken away by different people to receive our punishments—and medical care, if we’re lucky.
Commander Decker takes me to a dark room where I get dropped: two hundred push-ups. She paces around me as I do the push-ups. They’re easy because of my replacement, but I attempt to show some effort so I don’t get another punishment.
“I know you’ve got more in you,” she says. “But you need to save your energy. Don’t be stupid, Ashiva. I can bench you forever. But if you want to lead, you must be smarter. I know how it is with these brats. Just show them up. All of them. Prove you’re better by being better. Leaders don’t have time to scrap with the children.”
Real talk from this drill sergeant surprises me. “I will try to do better. Thank you.”
“I know you call me Bone Breaker. But you know, I am a trained surgeon in the African Red Hand Assault Team. Putting bones back together is more my specialty.”
“Do you miss your home?” I look up at her when I finish the exercise.
“Yes, every day. But that’s what we fight for, right?”
“Yeah, right.”
“Work with General Shankar. He’s a stubborn man, but together you will become a great force. And you’re not done yet. You’re on latrine duty for a week. Hey, got to keep you humble.”
“A week?”
“Yeah, but Gunnar has to clean out all the animals shit in the caves. Have you smelled it?”
4//SYNCH
The ice pack numbs my bruised nose, but whoever hit my metal jaw definitely got the worse deal. My bunk is hard, but I’ve slept in sorrier places. These thick concrete walls offer only two sounds: vibration or silence. The acoustics inside the small spaces are muffled. In large open spaces, like the gathering area or the mess hall, sounds bounce indiscriminately. Every room is a bomb shelter. Doors are a thick, impermeable metal. We are warm, fed, clothed, and apart from possible attack, we are safe.
But this, this is not my home.
The room is clean even though it is painted in the same dingy gray that appears unwashed and dusty. The pipes rattle every five minutes. It is reminiscent of the room Jai imprisoned me in, in what feels like a lifetime ago. We are five stories beneath the ground, under a Himalayan mountain, in a fort that was built more than a few decades earlier, when regional biotects envisioned the trajectory of this world. Though, of course, this fort was half demolished during WWIII and ignored because it was useless, until the Red Hand began mending the inner walls and stockpiling supplies along the mountain roads. Before it collapsed, teams of South Asian architects, scientists, and sociologists came together in secret to build this space, with room enough for a hundred, to sustain humankind in case of a nuclear fallout. They didn’t account for that type of stone to collapse, destroying half of the fort during the war, leaving only a few rooms and a hangar. These ruins were easy to ignore, to forget, as they were apparently built-in secret. Which is why we’ve managed to stay out of sight. That, and the security drones that monitor the region from the temple city all along the Neo Silk Roads and help us stay hidden.
My repeating nightmare: I wake just as the mountain fort collapses on top of me. Struggling to breathe, terrified, and then a sudden quiet as I give into the darkness. Visions of terror and anxiety have heightened since we arrived. On occasion, I hear my mother’s faint voice whispering, “Come home.” It’s unclear if I’m losing my mind or if the churn of data, upgrades, and neural-synch blockers have glitched me permanently. My hyperacusis leaves me dreading every sound: the Red Hand crews running their battle scenarios, the trainees from the Children of Without orphanage giggling, all of it. The buzzing of security cameras and constant comms reporting the levels of threats outside the fort are enough to cause stress in the most stable individual. Above it all, my mother’s voice calls out, a powerful reminder I share blood with a mass murderer. Anxiety is a demon that’s difficult to return to its cage once it’s out.
While she’s far away in Greenland defending her actions before the highest courts, she’s found a way to torture me. Am I bugged? Mother could manage to outrun the charges—even with all the witnesses and proof. Father is probably still on the Alliance Space Colony. There’s only one person who’s never lied to me: Kanwar Uncle. Is he alive? General Shankar says he’s looking into Uncle’s connection with the Red Hand, another thing the boss holds over me.
I don’t belong here.
Last night, he questioned me for the third time in secret. At midnight, a person with their face covered with a scarf entered my room and escorted me to a closet on the other side of the fort. General Shankar was waiting for me. He connected me to a device and began with the same questions he always had.
“Has your mother contacted you?” He never took his eyes off me.
“No.”
“Have you contacted your family or reached out to authorities in the PAC or SAP?”
“No,” I repeated.
The machine never disagrees with my responses, my heart rate always stays steady and calm. But nonetheless, General Shankar apparently doesn’t believe me.
“I’d rather you leave. I don’t trust you or your kind. Something about a full stomach—your whole life makes you regard the world differently than us. You’re probably missing your apartment in Solace Towers by now.”
He wasn’t wrong about that. “I’ll leave tomorrow.” My voice felt weak. “I don’t want to get in her way.”
“You’ll stay. Your sudden absence would only be a larger distraction. We’re focused on our next mission. Got me?”
“Yeah.” They couldn’t find a bug so instead they keep me on house arrest.
“I want to be clear. You are being watched at all times by every camera and person in this fort. One step out of line, well, accidents happen, thik hai?”
“Okay, okay. Got it.”
Though I want to defend myself, I take the third degree. He’s right. Can’t be here, can’t go home. Permanently displaced. Ashiva will never accept that I don’t belong here. Perhaps she’s safely in denial or focused on the larger mission.
“Hey, ullu! Stop sulking about!” A kid’s voice rings through the empty room like a bell and snaps me back to the present.
“What?”
“Mr. Synch, hellooo?” Rao waves his hand in front of my face like a flag.
“Oh, it’s you.” I recall the General’s words about everyone watching me and wonder if that includes this innocent child.
