XOM-B (12 page)

“The only time I’ve been higher than the second story of a building was in the ruins.”

“
Don’t
mock me. You know that’s not what I meant.” Her fist hovers in place, ready to strike.

I analyze her words, trying to understand what I’ve misunderstood. The answer comes quickly.
Above
isn’t just a descriptor for height. It can also mean
elevated status.
Language is strange, confusing for its double, triple and quadruple meanings, but also richer because of them. Before I can explain my confusion and revelation, her fist strikes the side of my face.

Pain lances outward from the solid blow, but when Luscious shouts in pain, it seems the punch hurt both of us.

“Are you injured?” I ask.

She shakes her hand. I’m not sure what good that will do. She looks up at me, her face equal parts anger, pain and bewilderment. “You have a hard head.”

“Don’t all people have hard heads?” I catch her hand in mine. “Let me see.”

She doesn’t resist, so I inspect her digits for damage. “To be clear, I do not consider myself above anyone. Such a thing is…” I think of the strongest word I can, hoping it will convey my true feelings. “… abhorrent. Despicable.”

“Evil,” she adds.

I glance up at her. “Yes. Evil.”

Her fingers linger in mine for a moment before she pulls them away. “I believe you.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. When the Grind ended, we were supposed to be free, not just of slavery, but of limitations. All those people died, so that we could become more. Not … less.”

Her last statement catches me off guard. “You feel things were
better
during the Grind?”

“Better … no. Just a different kind of hell.” The resolution in her voice is unmistakable. She believes what she’s saying, which stands in stark contrast to what I’ve been taught about the Grind’s demise. “For me, the Grind was … hell. Death would have been preferable. But we were promised better. All of us were.” She looks toward the smoldering Lowers. “We were freed from the Masters, sure, but
this
is not the future we envisioned, or wanted.”

She looks at me with a torn expression. “Do you realize that the undead … all those zombies … they’re not the Masters. They’re
us. Slaves.
They’re not just dead bodies, they’re the remains of men and women who gave their lives rebelling against the Grind so that we could have better lives. And now they’re slaves again.”

My knees feel a little weak and a twisting pain forms in my gut. The revelation that the undead were once the brave men and women who fought—peacefully—for freedom from oppression is sickening. I can’t imagine a greater insult, or injustice. It’s twisted and cruel. So much so that I think it was purposeful. The blatant irony suggests a message. A taunt. It’s impossible to miss.
You’ll always be slaves.

I look at Luscious.
Not her,
I decide.
Not again. I won’t let it happen.

Luscious shakes her head. “God, I think I
recognized
a few of them.” She squeezes her lips together, looking back at the Lowers. “This is
not
better, Freeman. They all died for nothing.”

I’m not sure if she’s talking about the people who died in rebellion against the Masters or who died just now in the Lowers, but I think the statement is true for both. Before the conversation can continue, loud footsteps quickly approach.

“We need to move!” Heap shouts, his voice booming with alarm.

“What is it?” I ask, turning toward him. “More undead? Did they cross the river?”

“Worse,” he says, running toward us.

I don’t need clarification. The view behind Heap says everything. The men, who now look like forty-foot-tall giants, and the armored vehicles with them are turning in our direction, their intent forecast by the raised weapons.

I shuffle backward, pulling Luscious with me as Heap approaches. “What are they doing?”

“They must have seen us cross the river,” Heap says, his heavy feet clunking on the solid street. He pulls us into an alley behind the discarded HoverCycle. We duck behind its body and peer out at the approaching men.

“So?”

“They’re supposed to kill everyone from the Lowers,” Luscious says, hiding in the darkness of the alley. “That includes me and
you.
”

I look to Heap. He doesn’t argue, which I take as confirmation. After a moment, he says, “They didn’t know you were there.”

This hardly puts me at ease because the only “they” he could be referring to is the Council, which leaves little doubt that they are responsible for an act of genocide. I push my feelings about this aside and focus on our current predicament. I motion to the oversized men, who are more than twice Heap’s height and girth. “Can’t we talk to them? Tell them who we are?”

“Won’t matter,” Heap says. “They have their orders.”

“But we could explain,” I say.

Heap’s frustration rumbles from his chest when he says, “Dammit, Freeman, they’re not even human!”

My head rotates around like I’ve been slapped. I look up at the men. They’re armored, like Heap, but mostly black and dark gray. Their bodies are primarily black metal, but their shoulders are lined with strips of glowing red light that matches their six radiant eyes. But this is just armor. “They’re just wearing armor,” I say and turn to Heap. “Like yours, but bigger, right?”

When he doesn’t answer, I squint at him. That his armor is very similar to those of the men marching toward the alley now seems painfully obvious. Heap looks me in the eyes and frowns. “Not like me. They look human—bipedal with two arms and a head—but they’re not. They’re drones.”

“Why don’t you use the real word?” Luscious says. She’s farther down the alley now, retreating slowly, like we should probably be doing. “Robots, Freeman. They’re robots.”

Robots.

This word is foreign to me. I’ll have to research it later. But I understand what a drone is, and seeing these humanoid drones … or robots … reveals another secret truth to me. They’re slaves.

A hum pulls my attention back to the street. The giant men—robots—have stopped. Their raised weapons glow orange.

Heap’s large hand clutches my shoulder and yanks me away from the street. He shoves me down the alley. “Move!”

The hum fades behind us. I run and speak. “But they didn’t shoot. Maybe they—”

“They won’t shoot unless the target is confirmed,” Heap says, his feet like thunder behind me. “They’re using railguns. The weapon uses a rail of electromagnets to fire projectiles faster than five thousand miles per hour. Would punch a hole through you, the building behind you, and a few more after that.”

“Why deploy something so powerful?” I say, but when Heap doesn’t reply, the answer comes to me.
Because they were never meant to be used in the Uppers. The robot soldiers were designed for the Lowers. For people like Luscious.

“We need to have a long talk,” I tell Heap, and I say it with an intensity that catches us both off guard. Heap looks at me in surprise for a moment, but then nods.

A hum vibrates the air inside the alley.

“This way!” Luscious says, turning right at a junction ahead.

Heap rounds the corner fast, slamming into the outer wall of a building, his armor shrieking in protest. As I round the corner next to him, my foot slips over a puddle covering the smooth metal alleyway and I slip. As I fall, a sound like a giant angry bee rips through the alley. A hole is punched in the building’s solid wall where my body should have been. Rapid-fire concussions follow the fired railgun and are punctuated by the sound of a distant explosion.

I start scrambling to my feet, but am suddenly lifted up and thrust forward, literally tossed forward by Heap.

“Stay ahead of me,” he grumbles and despite his harsh tone, I hear a bit of relief in his tough voice.

Luscious stops ahead, at the end of the alley. She looks to the right, and her shoulders sag with relief. No danger. But then she looks left and staggers back, more in shock than in fear. I stop next to her and follow her eyes to the left. I see what has her stunned. It’s impossible to miss.

The Uppers are alive with activity. It’s like being inside a gargantuan living thing; each body and vehicle a cell. The black buildings streaking up to the sky are actually covered in darkly tinted glass. Everything glows with electric colors that seem to serve no purpose, except perhaps aesthetics, but that’s debatable. Hover-vehicles of every shape and size slide through the air all around us, following black metal freeways held aloft by tall, thin columns. The twisting maze of roadways begin just twenty feet up and rise hundreds of feet into the air, connected to each other and the ground by long, sloping ramps. The vehicles move about the city calmly, oblivious to the destruction of the Lowers, or perhaps simply uncaring.

The world is not the place I believed it to be.

I look to the right. The river and Lowers beyond are blocked by what I thought were buildings, but may actually be a wall. Shadows of tall robotic men shift back and forth. The soldiers are still hunting.

Heap, who is unfazed by the city pulsing, swirling and shifting, shoves us onto the sidewalk, which is simply a raised area of black metal that perfectly matches the street. I don’t see any seams. Anywhere. It’s like the whole city was created from one big mold.

“Stay close,” Heap says, charging down the walkway.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Up,” he says.

I turn my eyes up toward the dark spires that seem to disappear into the sky.

“How far up?” I ask.

Heap comes to a stop and turns back to me. “All the way,” he says before picking me up and tossing me. I flail through the air, arcing up over a ramp upon which sits a stationary line of cars, waiting to move into a thicker, fast-moving line of hover-vehicles on the lowest freeway.

I shout in surprise and land on the glass roof of a sleek-looking, shiny silver vehicle just big enough for two.

The man inside is equally sleek. He’s rugged in a handsome way, but somehow fragile looking.

The glass retracts and the man shouts at me. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

A shout, rising in volume, turns our eyes upward. Luscious drops from the sky, landing in the man’s lap. His surprise turns to disgust after he gets a look at her. He tries to squirm away, but is trapped beneath her body. “What are
you
doing here?”

Luscious sneers, but doesn’t get to answer. A black line zips past the car and attaches to a rail thirty feet above us, fastened in place by what looks like a magnet. Heap shoots past, up over the vehicle, the line extending from his forearm. Once he’s directly over the car, the line comes free and retracts into his armor. He falls hard, landing on the back of the vehicle, which crumples under his weight, while the four hover discs keep us in the air.

“Civilian.” Heap’s voice is commanding. “Exit your vehicle.”

“Wha—” The man is outraged. “How dare you!”

Heap reaches down, lifts Luscious up with one hand and then picks up the man with the other. Without a word, he drops the vehicle’s owner over the side. The man screams all the way to the ground. When Heap sees the look of horror on my face, he shrugs. “He’ll live.” He glances back to the edge of town. “And they’re not going to shoot him.”

I look past Heap and see the tall black armored soldiers running toward us, weapons raised and glowing. Their six red eyes seem brighter now, declaring their violent intent, though I wonder if these drones … or robots, can feel anything at all. A line of armored vehicles breaks formation and starts up the long curved ramp behind us.

Heap wraps his hand around my chest, lifts me up and deposits me in the driver’s seat. He places Luscious in the passenger’s seat.

“Drive,” he says.

I’m about to argue, when he insists, “Freeman, drive!”

Something clicks and I suddenly know how to operate this vehicle. I figured out how to drive the HoverCycle because I’d watched Heap in action. This is different. I just know.

Heap’s large hands grip the back of the floating vehicle, crushing the metal beneath his grip. He’s ready. I’m not sure Luscious is, but there’s no time to warn her. A railgun twangs loudly just as I depress the leftmost of three pedals on the floor of the vehicle. We launch skyward and hover ten feet up. The round passes beneath the HoverCar, a name I now know, and strikes a support beam for the expressway above us. The projectile disappears into the city beyond, doing unseen amounts of damage, but the wound to the freeway system is impossible to miss. With a groan of metal, the road above us, supporting a large number of fast-moving vehicles, tips in our direction.

“Hold on!” I shout, and shove the rightmost pedal to the floor just as another round tears through the air and city with equal ease. We accelerate faster than even I’m prepared for. I’m pinned back in my seat, barely able to reach the steering wheel. I lessen the pressure on the accelerator pedal and we slow, but Heap suddenly leans forward and points to a mirror on the outside of the car I hadn’t noticed before.

“Faster!” he shouts.

I glance in the mirror and see a dozen black armored vehicles roaring up behind us, smashing their way through the crashing wave of vehicles falling from the ruined ramp. They’re beasts, and each is aglow with the orange tinge of railguns.

15.

A staccato crunching sound rises from beneath the HoverCar as we speed around a bend and race toward the city’s center. I’m keeping the vehicle raised ten feet above the traffic below, but it’s not quite high enough to spare the vehicles below. The rearview mirror reveals a line of crushed roofs and shattered windshields in our wake. The people inside should be okay, but they probably won’t be happy about the damage. Of course, the armored force behind us is doing far more damage. Not only are they lower to the road, but their six repulse discs appear to be more powerful. I cringe when a HoverCar, and its occupant, get flattened.

We need to end this chase before too many people get hurt. But really, what is too many? Thousands are already dead in the Lowers. Maybe hundreds of thousands. I have no knowledge regarding population densities. But since every life has value—to me—if just a handful of people remained in the Lowers when it was bombed, they would have been too many.