Blood Zero Sky (13 page)

Randal fidgets, sniffs, scratches his head, looking uncomfortable. “They’re here,” he says finally.

“Here? Now?” I look around in fear, Randal’s paranoia infecting my mind.

“Here,” he repeats. “This building. B-bottom floor, Z hall.”

I nod. Cranton is the most secret and secure N-Corp facility in the hub. It makes sense that Black Brands would be located here. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Randal smiles that strange, Peaked-out smile. He counts something on his fingers, rubs his face. When he looks back at me, there are tears in his eyes. He motions me to him and says into my ear: “You’re on your own.”

~~~

Heavy autumn leaves burden the horizon. The sky is a sheet of homogenous gray, dark with the threat of impending rain, but there’s a strange stillness in the crisp air. I’m fifteen, wandering home from school, thinking of Kali.

“May,” a whisper turns my head. Seventeen-year-old Randal steps from behind a tree trunk. He nods me over to him, off the path, and leads me away from the crowd of students heading home from N-Academy.

“What’s up?” I ask when we’re out of earshot.

He glances over his shoulder. The movement is smooth—not like the jerky, bird-like movements of the later Randal. He speaks softly, with no stutter: “You have to come with me,” he says. “There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”

“She’d better be pretty,” I say—though I love Kali and Randal knows it. Besides Kali, Randal is the only one in the world who knows I like girls. He usually jokes around with me about it. But apparently, not today. The look Randal throws me is meant to squelch my attempts at comedy. It doesn’t.

“Or is she one of the ones you like? Fat and hairy, with a hunchback and a peg leg?” I do my best impression of Randal’s fictional lover, limping along next to him and making a grotesque face.

He smiles in spite of himself. “Stop it, May.” He quits walking and turns to look at me. “You know who I like,” he says quietly. Our eyes lock for a moment, but he looks away before I can get angry with him. He’s professed his love to me twice before. Twice, I’ve told him it’s never going to happen. He cracks his knuckles, a nervous tick he started because he played piano. He was a beautiful pianist in those days, before he had to give it up. Peak makes your hands shake.

“We better go,” Randal says. “We shouldn’t keep him waiting.” He seems so serious that I’m afraid to ask who it is we’re meeting, and we walk the rest of the way in silence.

We pass out of the school grounds, into a park filled with sickly looking, pollution-stunted trees. We pass in silence down a slippery, muddy path between the groping branches of overgrown shrubs. After a moment, the foliage falls away, revealing a clearing.

Ahead, a fountain. Sitting on its rim, a man.

He looks up but does not rise as we approach. Though he’s not very old—forty, at the most—his hair is already tinged with silver. The bulk of his black overcoat betrays muscular shoulders. His jaw is square, his face handsome, his gaze unflinching.

“May Fields,” he says, but instead of tipping his head as you would expect one to do with that type of greeting, he merely stares.

“May,” Randal says (in those days he was unfailingly polite), “this is Squad member Blackwell.”

Then I recognize him. This man had haunted the fringe of my life for years, passing in and out of my father’s offices, standing in the corner during important press conferences, and dropping by the house late at night for unexpected briefings. He isn’t one of the sniveling, pitiful tie-men who usually fawn over my dad, though—far from it. And he’s not one of those last few rogue government agents who had to be rounded up a few years ago, as I had momentarily feared. No, Mr. Blackwell is none of those reprehensible things. There’s no need to fear this man; he’s one of the good guys. A good Company man, an N-Corp HR agent, a member of the security squad. I smile at him, and he smiles back.

Randal looks at his shoes, sniffs the cold air.

“I’m a friend of your father’s, May,” Blackwell says. “Do you remember me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I’m here on his behalf.”

If I’d had a different father, this might have raised a red flag. Most fathers would never send a surrogate to do their work where their daughters are concerned. But not my dad. A secretary brought me to my baptism. I have the pictures to prove it.

“There’s a very important matter that your father—and the Company—need your help with. I’m sure you’ve heard of HR watchers?”

“Yes.”

“And you know what they do?”

“Yeah. They spy on people. Turn them in for cursing and stuff.”

“Well,” Blackwell says, “sometimes. Sometimes they do more important things than that. They help squadmen enforce Company HR policy. For example, if somebody were going to steal your dad’s car, you’d tell someone, right? And if, say, somebody was going to sabotage a Company product—like an imager—you’d want to stop them, because what if a bunch of people bought the sabotaged imagers and they were defective? Think of how disappointed they’d be. Or if somebody burned down a Company building, then people would have no place to go to work.”

“But why would somebody do something like that to their own Company? That’s stupid,” I say.

“Of course it is. But there are bad people out there who want to hurt the Company, because they don’t understand how many good things we do. Unprofitables. These people are very sick, very confused, very dangerous. And I’m afraid you might know one of them.”

“Who?” I ask, shocked. I glance over at Randal for some hint, but he doesn’t look at me.

“He’s the father of one of your friends.”

“Who?”

A swirl of falling leaves mirrors the confusion in my mind.

“Kali.” It’s Randal who speaks. I look at him.

“What?”

“You’re going to help us find out what he’s doing,” Blackwell says, “and then we’re going to apprehend him.”

“What? No!”

“No?”

“I can’t do that to Kali!”

“But you’d be saving Kali,” Blackwell says. “And your father. And yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll show you.”

Blackwell reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulls out an IC, and touches the screen. There, suddenly, are Kali and me, in my bedroom. Kissing. The blush in my cheeks burns until I think it will sear my skin. Kissing a girl is a major breach of N-Ed policy, and I know it. With an image like that, I could be kicked out of school—and the Company—forever. I could become an unprofitable myself. And so could Kali.

“Put it away,” I say weakly.

“You know,” Blackwell muses, “footage like this could fetch a pretty penny in the right circles.”

“Put it away!”

This time, something in my voice makes him comply. The IC disappears into a pocket of the big coat. He shakes his head.

“May Fields. Such immodesty. Think of how that scene could shame you. And now of all times, when you’re about to start applying for your Company position. You’d never pass the morality check, not with this floating around. Think, you could wind up on the cleaning service—or worse. And with your father’s position as CEO up for review, something like this becoming public could ruin him altogether.”

For a moment, Blackwell and I lock eyes. I’m caught somewhere between crying and punching him in the face.

“You’re threatening me,” I say, my voice tremulous with anger. “I’ll tell my father.”

“Your father won’t be able to do much about it, after he’s been thrown off the board for raising a pervert. Remember, May, upright moral conduct is a cornerstone of N-Corp ”

“My father is a great man. You could never get him fired.”

“Little May. Your father might be a big fish, but he doesn’t control the ocean.”

“I’ll tell the Company. I’ll go to your superiors.”

“This errand is on behalf of the Company, May.”

“I’ll tell . . . I’ll tell . . . ” And that’s just it; there’s no one else to tell.

Blackwell stares at me.

“Welcome to the life of a watcher, May. Don’t be so upset. Everyone has to do it sooner or later. And if you do well today, you might go far. I can promise you this, you’ll get your position in the marketing department. And this kid—” he nods at Randal, “he’ll get to go and play with the geniuses.”

“Cranton?” I say. “He hasn’t even tested yet.”

“It’s been decided,” says Blackwell, rising. “It’s all been decided. Next time we meet you’ll tell me what you’ve seen. And this—hide this someplace in your friend Kali’s apartment. We’ll take care of the rest.” He hands me a tiny metal object, no larger than a breath mint. “God bless you both,” he says, and just like that, he leaves.

Raindrops start falling, huge and frigid. Blackwell’s footfalls clatter away along the water-darkened pavement. For a moment, there’s no sound but the patter of rain on leaves.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Randal begins. Without another thought, my hands shoot out, striking him in the center of the ribcage, and I shove him to the grass.

“It was a secret, Randal! I thought you were my friend!” I shout.

“He said they were going to take you down, May! You and your dad. I had to give them something; I had no choice.”

The only answer is the rush and tick of the rain. I stare at Randal, trying to set him on fire with my eyes.

“You’ll get to train for the marketing department, May. And I’m gonna be in the tech development tier! I’m gonna be a Blackie,” he continues.“Everything’s working out like it should. And Kali . . . Kali is no good for you anyway.”

“Go to hell, Randal.” I say, and stalk off into the downpour.

I won’t see him again for weeks. He’ll train for the next two years at the tech development school in N-Hub 3 before finally taking up his position at Cranton. I’ll only see him once more before he leaves. After that, he’ll try sending me e-mails for a while, telling me about how much he loves his new school, telling me about his new best friend—some guy training for an HR psychology position. He’ll try to convince me that what we did was for the best. I’ll delete the e-mails without replying. Years later when we happen to get assigned to the budget presentation together, the allure of a familiar face will be strong enough to make me forgive and forget.

Today, though, I wander in the rain. And tonight, I’ll see my Kali for the second to last time.

—Chapter Ø11—

The elevator plummets,
and I descend into the bowels of Cranton. On the lowest floor, I hurry past hallways: X hall, Y hall, and finally Z hall. Here, a thick black door that looks as if it’s made of carbon fiber stands closed. I step toward it, hoping to hear the familiar chirp as the door reads my cross and slides open. Instead, Eva consoles me:
Sorry, May Fields. Clearance denied.

I grit my teeth in frustration and weigh my options. I could try to get clearance, but that would raise all kinds of red flags. I could bring my father down here—as CEO, he has access to all Company doors. But who knows where he is now? He might be halfway across the world on business for all I know. One thing is certain: I have to get in here, and I have to get in now.

Just then, I hear the voices of two men coming down the hall. I silently slip behind a marble column and listen as the Peakers approach.

“The levels of d-dark matter are negligible,” the first one says.

“It’s still enough to disrupt the experiment if we d-don’t neutralize it.”

They’re close. I hold my breath, waiting to be discovered, but instead the electronic door voice pipes up:
Mr. Reyes, Mr. Mason, welcome to Black Brands.

Then comes the whoosh of the door sliding open and the clatter of footsteps as the Peakers pass inside and down the hall. Without a second thought, I dash out from my hiding place and shoot through the doorway.

“I just don’t see how it’s going to work . . . ” one of the Peakers is saying, as I slip behind them and take cover next to another large fake plant.

The door whooshes shut again behind me. The Peakers’ footsteps fade away down the hall. I’m shocked and strangely concerned at how easy all that was. For better or worse, I am now inside Black Brands. I step out from behind my plant and head down the hallway, trying to walk with purpose so as to not appear out of place.

This hall is no different from the others in Cranton: rich-looking red wallpaper and strange paintings adorn the walls. Big fake plants are everywhere. Classical music murmurs from the ceiling. But something is different. I can feel it.

Now, on my right, I approach a heavy-looking paneled door. With one hand on the door-handle, I take a deep breath, then push it open and poke my head in. If the rest of Black Brands were to be judged by the contents of this room, it must be a pretty benign place. There’s a big conference table, a bunch of chairs, and an electronic chalkboard full of mathematical equations.

I proceed to the next door. This room is as strange as the last was boring. It appears to be a medical exam room of some sort. White walls surround a ceramic medical table, on which the body of a middle-aged man rests. I look up and down the hall to be sure no one is coming, then step inside the room. Slowly, I approach the exam table.

The cadaver is wrapped in a white sheet with only his waxy-looking face exposed. The cross that was in his cheek has been pulled partway out. Wires run from the cross and appear to be connected deep inside the dead man’s face. On the wall, an imager screen hangs. Ones and zeros flit across a black background. All is silent here save for the distant whir of the air conditioner. Suddenly, the sound seems to surround me, and I get the disturbing impression that I’m at the center of some giant, humming machine. The dead man’s eyes stare emptily toward the ceiling. I lean closer to him, staring in fascination and disgust at the slit in his cheek.

Suddenly, he blinks.

I gasp and stumble backward until my back is pressed against the door. My hand fumbles for the handle, then in an instant I’m back in the hallway, my heart thumping wildly. But there’s no time to catch my breath. Up the hall, two patrolling squadmen hear me burst into the hallway. I watch in horror as they turn toward me—but already, I’m ducking into another door, slamming it shut behind me.

When I turn to face this new room, I’m shocked to find five people seated at a conference table, blinking at me expectantly. Two of them are the men I followed into Black Brands. The other three are woman. Then all smile at me strangely as I hold my breath, calculating my next move.

I’m even more surprised when one of the men stands and extends a hand.

“You must be Doctor Mullins,” he says. “I’m Walter Reyes. Thank you so m-much for coming all the way from Cranton West to join us. Please, sit.”

This is all too strange, too surreal. Who the hell do they think I am? What am I supposed to do? But I have no time to think, no chance to form a plan. If I go out into the hall, the squadmen will snatch me up for sure. All I can do is muster a smile and take the chair I’m offered.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, casually wiping at the sheen of sweat that’s suddenly appeared on my forehead.

“First, let me just say we’re all big fans of your work,” Reyes says. “We’ve read all your memos.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“So let’s get right down to it,” Reyes says, and they all stare at me expectantly. Several of them have their ICs out, ready to take down notes on whatever it is I’m supposed to say. I shift in my seat, clear my throat.

“Why, uh . . . why don’t you start?” I suggest.

Reyes seems taken aback for a second then nods. “Oh, you mean start with what we know of your work?”

“Exactly.”

Reyes glances at his colleague, Mason, who begins. “Okay, maybe we should start with your nano-poisons. You’ve developed over two thousand different varieties, each of them completely programmable and able to attack a d-different type of cell.”

Flashing before my eyes, I see an image of the little boy on the Africa Division hilltop, his arm extended, finger pointing, as he falls to the dust. I see the dart in his neck. A dart that, I suspect, must have been filled with nano-poison.

“Why?” I ask, my voice quivering.

Reyes and Mason glance at one another, perplexed.

“Excuse me?” Reyes says.

Mason turns to him with disdain. “It’s Socratic questioning, moron,” he says, then turns back to me with a confident grin. “Right, Doctor. I understand. We use the nano-p-poison because it’s more humane than other poisons. And undetectable. And when we get quantities up, it’ll be cheaper than bullets, right?”

Everyone laughs except me.

“Sorry,” I say, trying hard to keep my voice steady. “Humor me while I play devil’s advocate here. What I’m asking is, why are we making these poisons in the first place?”

Reyes looks at me, mystified. “Because,” he says, “it’s our j-job.”

To that, I can make no response. I sit there, frozen, mortified, until from behind me I hear the sound of the door opening. I turn to see a silver-haired woman entering.

“Terribly sorry I’m late,” she says, and introduces herself: “Edna M-M-Mullins.”

Instantly, all eyes are on me.

“What—?” Reyes blurts, rising to his feet.

But I’m already halfway to the door.

“Excuse me,” I mumble, shoving my way past Dr. Mullins and out into the hallway. Then, I run.

Hundreds of paneled doors streak past on either side of me, but I lack the courage to open any of them. All I can do is run, faster and faster, until I’ve fled this place and all the horrible meaning it contains. Ahead, the hallway dead-ends at two heavy, metal doors. I blast through them and find myself in a warehouse of unbelievable scale. The walls could be a mile distant. The ceiling seems a thousand feet away. I sprint down aisleway after aisleway and am surrounded at every turn by horrors:

Crate after crate of strange, black guns.

Rows of large, flying drones.

Ranks of fearsome-looking robots.

And racks and racks of small, black, triangular aircraft, the same ones from McCann’s video. The labels on the racks read:
Ravers
. Next to that, the N-Corp logo.

Even in repose, the aircraft are terrifying to behold. Small, dark disks—probably infrared sensors—seem to watch me as I hurry past. I half expect to see the Ravers rise one by one, hover slowly but inexorably toward me, then fill me with a thousand darts full of nano-poison death.

I run, faster and harder than I’ve ever run before. After sprinting for what seems like hours, I reach the outer perimeter of the warehouse, find a bank of elevators, ride them up to the main level, then pick my way through the maze-like corridors of Cranton. By the time I finally make it out, tears have already risen to my eyes and then dried again. I stumble down the Cranktown steps and linger at the edge of the street, watching the traffic lurch and stop, lurch and stop, staring at the taillights like some lunatic unprofitable.

In this moment, I feel utterly hollow, empty enough that the wind could blow right through me. My hands tremble. My head pounds. Across the street, a huge sign reads: N-Shopping.

I don’t so much walk as drift toward it. I have no sensation of my feet touching the ground. I can hardly hear the cars honking all around me. The slogans blaring from the imagers wash over me as imperceptibly as the faintest breeze. All I feel is my brow, knotted, furrowed, heavy, as the weight of my thoughts presses down on me. I imagine that the weight, the pressure, will either crush my spirit completely or temper it, harden it, turn it into something new—as coal under tremendous pressure becomes a diamond.

~~~

Welcome, May Fields. A fifty-dollar entry fee has been added to your account. Have a blessed day.

The chaos of the shopping plaza mirrors the confusion in my mind. Dazed, milling shoppers choke the great marbled halls. A handsome young man pauses to swallow a handful of pills. Squadmen patrol the area, moving slowly and deliberately through the crowd like sharks through a school of fish. Store windows showcase the new fall line. It’s just the same as last year’s—only twice as expensive. To my left, I notice a woman arguing with a retail manager.

“N-Corp is very sorry, but there are no refunds,” the manager says. “Next in line.”

“The thing was broken when I got it!” the woman protests.

But the manager has already forgotten her. He cranes his neck to see the rest of the waiting customers. “Next in line!”

A moment later, two sweaty tie-men duck out of a storefront labeled N-Surance and hustle toward me.

The taller one shouts: “Hey! Miss! We got the best deal around on health insurance!”

“You can’t pass this up,” the shorter one says. “Just let us show you some numbers.”

I push my way past them, but they hurry along with me.

“Two hundred K a month, full coverage!” one says.

“Today only: free luggage when you sign up.”

I double my pace, suddenly ill, but the taller one grabs my arm, desperate to detain me.

“Come on, just give us five minutes!” he says.“We got a quota to hit!”

I pull away from him and keep walking as his pleading fades into the murmur of the crowd: “Please! Come on, please!”

Ahead, an unspeakably handsome man stands at a kiosk, with his equally adorable little son. Suddenly, a shrill beeping sound emanates from the checkout.

“You have exceeded your credit limit, Mr. Blanford. Prepare to be detained. ”

The man backs away, but before he can run three squadmen have laid hold of him and are dragging him away.

The little boy stands frozen in place, watching as his dad disappears behind a pair of steel doors set into the shopping plaza wall. “Daddy?” he calls.

But the doors are shut. It’s as if his dad never existed at all. The boy’s head swivels as he looks around in confusion, searching for something or someone—his mother, maybe. Instead, his eyes find mine. They’re brimming with tears.

Suddenly, I’m running again.
I can’t be responsible,
I think over and over again. Not for the little boy. Not for the Company. Not for Kali. Not for any of this. It’s not my problem if these stupid tie-men can’t hit their quota, or if Dagny outspent her productivity and got repossessed. It’s a competitive world. Hard workers win; lazy people fail. That’s the natural way: it’s called justice. So what if a few weak losers end up suffering to pave the way for the rest of us to live in luxury? Why should strong, successful people like me waste five minutes worrying about unprofitables? They aren’t my responsibility.

These are the thoughts I’ve consoled myself with my entire life, but now, for some reason I can’t fathom, they fill me with a nameless horror.
Because they’re lies,
a voice inside me says.
They’ve always been lies, and you know it.

Nauseated, I make my way to the nearest wall and lean there. Sweat covers my forehead. My legs shaking, I slide along the wall to a corner, where a cherry panel meets a marble column, and take out my IC.

Ethan’s words ring through my head:
You have to go to your father. Get his help. The Company has to be stopped. . . .

As I pull up my father’s number on my IC, I glance over my shoulder. Is it my imagination or are those tie-men following me? And if they are, who do they work for, the Protectorate—or the Company?

My IC connects.

Dyanne’s voice sounds shrill and strange when she answers.

“Hellooo?”

“Where’s my dad?”

“Who is this?”

“Who do you think? I need to talk to him.”

I glance over at the tie-men who were following me. They’ve disappeared—for now.

“Well,” Dyanne drawls, “your father’s in a board meeting right
now. . . . ”

“Where?”

There’s a slight pause. “It’s a closed meeting, May.”

“That’s perfect,” I say. “Where?”

~~~

N-Corp Cathedral.

The polished steel panels of the walls intertwine. Their shapes evoke a feeling of movement, almost seeming to swoop like soaring angels around the grand, stained-glass windows before ascending to an expansive domed ceiling almost as high as heaven itself. Many skylights stare up at the nightfall. The carpet underfoot is plush, my steps silent. I pass between suede-covered pews—each with its own row of small, square imager screens, all dark. The immensity of this space can only be compared to that of a football stadium or a large combat arena. But there is no crowd here tonight. Only me.