Crystal Rebellion (11 page)

Juice nodded. “How is the Triada able to control the
synbods?”

Scratching his chin, he considered the question. “I always
figured they had a mess of crystals networked together.” He stopped scratching.
“But when you put me on the spot, I realize that doesn’t make sense. We’ve
counted twenty synbods, and they’d need a whole lot of crystal power to control
all of them.”

“Doesn’t make sense to me, either. Would you think about how
you might go about doing it—controlling twenty synbods?” Juice stood. “The
Venerable
arrives soon and the record will show me riding in with them. If you meet me at
the shuttle, I’d enjoy spending time with you and catching up.” She made for
the door of his bedroom.

“You’re leaving? You just got here.”

“I have to go, but I’ll be here for real, real soon.” She
turned back to him. “Will you walk me to the door?”

He made an impromptu toga from the bedsheet and followed her
out to his living area. Adjusting the sheet so he could give her a hug, he
thought,
kiss her.
His lack of confidence won out and, giving her a
chaste squeeze, he touched his cheek to hers.
You smell great.

He took a chance and shared a secret with her. “I admit that
I’ve been looking forward to your visit with…anticipation.”

It was her turn to gush. “Really?” She rubbed his arm and gave
him a warm smile. “Wanna see a fun spy thing?” He was studying her lips when she
disappeared.

“Whoa. How does it work?” He reached out to touch her, and
his hand moved through empty air. “Wait. Are you still here?”

“I’m over here.” Her voice came from near the front door. “Would
you mind opening it for me?”

He understood he was part of the misdirection. Filling a
glass with water, he moved near the door. “Ready?”

“Wait,” she said. She came back into view right in front of
him. “I know there are colonists unhappy with the Triada.”

“That’s an understatement,” he said, his dry tone carrying
his sarcasm.

“Who do people look to when talk turns to change?”

“There’s a guy, Marcus Procopio, who is closest to what you
describe. He uses this young woman, Bobbi Lava, as his gatekeeper. That’s Bobbi
spelled with an
I
and I don’t think it’s her real name. She hangs out in
the Central District.”

“Thanks.” Standing on her toes, she pecked his cheek. “See
you soon.” She faded again.

He signaled the door to open, stepped forward so it couldn’t
close, and held the glass to his lips. “Be careful, J.” He took a sip.

The door whispered shut when he stepped back inside. Bringing
his fingers to his cheek, Alex touched where Juice had kissed him and smiled.

Sid considered giving Alex a pinch on
the butt as he led the way out of the apartment, figuring that because they
were cloaked, the man would think Juice did it. He succeeded in holding his
infantile humor in check, although the idea made him smile. Juice joined him
moments later and they started down the hall.

Alex’s apartment was on the building’s third floor. Since buildings
on Mars went down into the ground, higher floor numbers indicated a greater
depth below the surface. In spite of the underground nature of the construction,
the hallway served the traditional role of being a balcony overlooking a central
courtyard—this one larger than Sid had expected.

Walking along the hallway rail, Sid took in the ambiance of
the open space. A medley of flowers, bushes, and trees filled the courtyard,
creating a botanical oasis. Pathways weaved through the greenery, and a scatter
of nooks held chairs and tables, creating private spots for conversation and
relaxation.

They reached the stairwell, and as they climbed, Sid’s
attention shifted upward. Capped with a transparent roof, the open courtyard extended
up to the planet surface. An automated sweeper worked its way back and forth
across the exterior of the clear cover, brushing away the grit that had
accumulated from the latest sandstorm.

“Check it out,” he said, pointing upward. The sweeper had
made enough progress to expose a quadrant of the nighttime sky. A bright white dot
floated in the heavens.

“Is that Phobos or Deimos?” asked Juice, referring to the
moons of Mars.

“Haven’t a clue.”

“Criss?”

“That one is Phobos.”

“Pretty.”

They reached a tall, utilitarian lobby staged with just enough
decoration to lift it above the category of austere. Walking through it, Sid
assessed the door to the street. Then he stopped in the middle of the room and scanned
the area for anyone who might be on their way out.

“A resident will be exiting in about five minutes,” said
Criss. “You can follow him out.”

Sid slumped onto a bench near the door. Juice joined him.

“What did you learn?” she asked.

While Juice had been reconnecting with Alex, Sid had searched
the apartment. “He’s created a detailed itinerary of things to do with you. Do
you prefer Italian or Mexican food before retiring to his place for a cordial?”

“Geez, Sid. Don’t spoil the good stuff. I’m talking about
his intentions.”

“So was I.”

She swatted his thigh with the back of her hand. “Criss, you
were there. What did Sid find?”

“That you’ll be offered the choice of watching a romantic
comedy or an action-adventure while you drink your cordial.”

Sid laughed so hard he snorted.

“Please, guys. I’m stressing over this.”

Sid reached behind her and gave her a squeeze. “He’s a good
guy, Juice. I didn’t find anything Criss didn’t know about already.”

“Oh, drat,” said Criss. “Our resident just got a call. He’s
still the next one to exit, but it will be another five minutes.”

“What happens if we just go?” asked Juice.

“Doors are choke points,” said Criss. “By tracking everyone
who crosses each threshold, security knows who is where at any time. The public
doorways across the colony have been outfitted with a sophisticated monitoring
suite—EM spectrum, audio, chemical, motion. It’s quite effective.”

Deciding he’d teased Juice enough, Sid expanded his target population.
“Poor Criss. Are the big bad sensors too much for you?”

“Did you know they track air molecule movement near the
door? Anything passing through will create eddy currents. Unexplained currents
trigger an alarm.”

“Waah.” Sid balled his hands into fists and pretended to
wipe away tears.

“The signals are funneled straight to the Triada secure
area. If they detect you, I will know only because security will be reacting. I
am working to avoid another situation where synbods are hunting for you.”

“Geez, Criss,” said Juice. “You sound defensive.”

“It’s important to me that you know I am doing my best.”

Juice sat upright. “Of course we know, Criss. Always.”

She looked at Sid, and he sensed a scolding “behave” behind
her glower.

He’s not that fragile
. He grasped that his humor missed
its mark, though, and put a check on it. Out loud, he said, “What do we know about
those two people that Alex mentioned?”

“Twenty-four years ago, Bobbi Lava was born Roberta Pompeii.
Her mother, a lounge singer named Delilah Pompeii, raised her on the road while
she traveled from one booking to the next. Her father is Marcus Procopio. He
met Bobbi for the first time here on Mars. It seems that Marcus and Delilah did
not keep in touch after that one night in Los Angeles.”

“So Bobbi
and
her dad are here on Mars?” said Sid.
“Interesting. Why does Alex think they are part of a change movement?”

“Both have heartfelt beliefs that government should be open
and transparent and should focus on helping citizens and bettering society.
They give the Triada failing grades on all counts. That failure, combined with
reports that they intimidate certain colonists, has pushed Marcus to his
tipping point. He is laying groundwork to correct the wrong. Bobbi is helping.”

As Criss talked, he projected a small image of Marcus and another
of Bobbi going about their day. Marcus was medium height, medium build, middle
aged, and with average looks.

Sid turned his attention to the image of Bobbi, a scruffy waif
marching along a lighted road.
Yikes.
Wearing several layers of clothing—the
outermost grimy and torn—she bobbed as she walked. Spikes of hair stuck out
every which way from an unkempt mop. Shiny metallic jewelry matched the sway of
her body, swinging with a coordinated rhythm from several points on her face.

“Her eccentric behavior is a reflection of her artsy
background?” asked Sid.

“Many would dispute that her mother’s work qualifies as art.
But it’s fair to say that her upbringing influences her behavior. It’s more
than that, though. People dismiss her. That lets her hide in plain sight.”

“Crazy like a fox,” said Juice.

“She’s a mess,” said Sid.

“She’s a mess with a degree in entwined systems architecture
from Berkeley,” said Criss.

“University of California?”

“That’s the one.”

“Huh.”

Bobbi turned and entered the door of a supply shop just as Criss’s
speech pattern sharpened. “Here comes your exit.”

Speaking in a muted voice to someone unseen, a man in his
early thirties walked across the lobby. Contrary to his quiet tone, his hands moved
in broad gestures to underscore his words.

Sid and Juice rose from the bench, tucked in behind the man,
and followed him out of the building. Once on the street, they stopped
following and let him continue his conversation in private.

Sid spun in a circle and performed a threat assessment.
Good.
As he expected for this late hour, pedestrian traffic was light. Floating arrows
appeared, directing them to the tram station and the way back to the scout. As
they walked, Sid nudged Juice and pointed upward.

“Wow,” she said. Visible through overhead skylights, stars
filled the heavens with a brilliant intensity.

Even in the quiet of night, the panorama proved effective at
countering the fact that, in truth, they walked below ground through an
enormous cavern. Though unlike the natural underground caves he’d seen, this
had a uniform ceiling height high overhead.

Sid looked up and down a side street as they crossed. “Marcus
must live here in the Quarter. Maybe we should drop in?”

“You can learn all about him from the safety of the scout,”
said Criss. “Might I encourage a speedy return?”

The Quarter was the residential district of the colony, with
the tram station serving as its central hub. Narrow streets radiated out from
the station like spokes on a wheel. Cross streets joined the spokes at regular
intervals to create what, if viewed from above, looked something like a spider’s
web. Apartment buildings, one like the next, lined each street of the maze to
create a stark sameness everywhere they looked.

“It’s incredible to be on Mars and all,” said Juice, “but I
doubt
Lovely Homes
will be doing a piece out here. Not in the near
future, anyway.”

“This is a frontier town,” said Sid. “The kinds of people
who migrate to Mars don’t even know
Lovely Homes
is a thing.”

“Caution!” Criss barked. “Move off the street. Hurry.”

Sid put his hand in the small of Juice’s back and pushed her
to the apartment wall edging the road. “What’s going on?”

He turned to the sound of laughter. Two teenage boys, each
riding a personal hoverseat, burst from a side street. Hooting and hollering,
they banked onto the road and raced toward where he and Juice had stood just
moments earlier.

The one in front took a swig from a bottle. Then, rising on
his seat, he flung the bottle at a wall—the wall where Sid stood with Juice—using
the added leverage of height to accelerate his projectile. Not waiting for
impact, he yipped with excitement and zoomed down the street, his buddy chasing
behind.

Sid’s battle-honed reflexes told him the bottle would hit
Juice, and he swiveled to push her out of the way. Juice had reached the same
conclusion and dodged in Sid’s direction. They collided and Juice fell back
against the wall. With a sickening thud, the bottle hit her square in the chest.

She flickered, shifting from the soft cast she projected
when cloaked to becoming a distinct image like everything around her. A split
second later, her cloak reengaged.

“Ohhh.” Bending at the waist, Juice put her hands on her
knees and moaned. “Damn, that hurt.”

Rubbing her back, Sid bent so his head was level with hers. “You’re
all right. I’m going to help you stand so I can look.”

As he helped her rise, she put her hands to her chest. “Is
there blood?”

Having spent years as a covert warrior for the Defense Specialists
Agency, Sid’s special-ops training became his instinct.
Be positive to the
injured.
“You’re okay. Let me move your hands so I can see.”

Given that they were in hostile territory, he balanced gentle
with fast.

Juice groaned and again bent forward. Sid could hear her labored
breathing and wished he could give her time. He waited two heartbeats and then,
using gentle pressure, lifted her upright. Pulling her hands from the center of
her chest, he made a quick visual inspection. “I don’t see a puncture. Your
clothes aren’t torn. It’s just blunt force trauma.”
That was a brutal blow.
“You’ll be fine.”

Using the fingers of one hand, he started at the top of her
sternum and pressed. “Tell me where it hurts.”

Her face displayed the grimace of someone processing pain,
but it didn’t change from his touch. Moving his hand down a bit at a time, he repeated
the procedure.

A little more than halfway to the base of her sternum, he
touched the locus relay.

“Ow. Right there.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Hey,
you’re flickering,” she said when she opened them.

“Criss!” Sid called.

“I’m connected, but just barely. That bottle damaged the
locus and I can’t fix it from here. You need to hump to your exfil, Sid, ASAP.”
Criss said the last part as a single word: ay-sap. “Head for the station.”

Sid’s scalp tingled from Criss’s pointed directive,
something that happened only in worst-case situations. And he used military
terminology familiar to Sid, calling for an exfiltration by foot.
Move fast.
Avoid people.
Avoid enclosures.
It kicked Sid’s mindset into its
highest gear.

“Can you walk?” He put an arm around Juice and, giving her
support, got her started.

“Yeah. The locus absorbed some of the blow. It’s more of a
throb, now.”

A small group of people gathered across the street, talking
in low voices. An older woman pointed.

Sid glanced back as he helped Juice toward the station.
Criss’s familiar arrows were gone, but the tram was a straight shot down the
street. The group of citizens kept their attention on the point of the accident,
and he asked Criss about it. “So our cloak integrity is secure?”

“With the locus compromised, I’ve returned the cloak
function back to your pendants. Last time we used them, though, synbods ended
up chasing you. I’m not optimistic that it will be any different this time.”

Juice—her face a pasty gray—walked without complaint.
You’re
a tough one
, Sid thought. He quickened his pace, and when she kept up, he
transitioned to a jog.

Juice broke her silence. “What will happen if they catch
us?”

“You are not in danger at the moment,” said Criss. “Though colony
security is mounting an action as we speak. If anything threatens your safety,
trust that I will be there to protect you. The only thing in danger right now
is our secrecy.”

“Hold for now,” Sid ordered Criss. While confident of his
own ability to survive and operate in hostile territory, his civilian partner
had neither the training nor the temperament for it. Sid watched Juice for a
dozen strides. “Give us a chance to make it on our own.”

He accelerated from a jog to a full run and Juice kept pace.
She trained hard every day and, uninjured, could bury Sid in a race of pretty
much any length. In fact, her nickname stemmed from the running prowess she’d
displayed at a young age.

“How are you holding up?” he asked as the tram station came
into view.

“Let’s get home,” she said through clenched teeth.

They slowed as they approached the pedestrian bridge, then Sid
stopped and rose up on his toes to get a better view of the boarding area. Three
men stood in a loose group on the passenger platform, chatting quietly. A woman
sat on a bench at the back wall, her attention on her com.