3 //

Ashiva

The bag is heavier than its size. I walk down the narrowing streets through the Liminal Area, the ten broken city blocks between Central’s gates and the entry into the Narrows slum. With its forgotten buildings and anarchists, it’s important to rush through. There’s always a fight to be had here. I move quickly toward the edge of the platform to the Narrow’s entry line. Returning home feels like sinking below the city, between dark, unfinished buildings, ancient structures in ruins, like faint memories still grasping onto life. Bygone buildings the SA keeps promising to fix, to finish. We’re all still grasping. After WWIII, the sea levels rose hundreds of feet and caused the Great Floods which led to a panicked, bloody mass migration inland to the South Asian Province’s center. Cities flooded. Millions drowned.

As I walk toward the line, I pass holo-screens projecting News One and the PAC’s President Liu’s weekly State of the Planetary Union that is more of his heartbreaking dung: “In these impossible circumstances, we will continue to allow each province to decide how to survive, and who will survive. It’s not the PAC that will control the decision. We are giving the decision and power back to the people.” Blah, blah, blah.

Power is never really with the people, is it?

The SA is desperate this year. I can feel it. They’ll do anything to secure funding to build the three remaining neocities, East, West and North. And I mean anything. In our overpopulated SA, President Ravindra decided to use the algorithm Solace to determine who was genetically the best choice to continue in this new world and live in the first of four planned neocities, Central City One. But really, President Ravindra was just too cowardly to make the choice herself. Let a computer decide. Give the ones deemed “fit” a neural-synch to optimize their brains so the fewer can work harder, better. Distance yourself from the suffering and maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe those deemed unfit by Solace will disappear or jump into the ocean themselves. Yeah, that’ll work out.

After WWIII, when the SA crushed the Red Hand with their mechas during the Last Vidroh, they created the gray-collars and their extensive UAV system to track us. The Red Hand was forced deep underground and separated into Internal, External and Liberation cells. We switched our all-channels comms to closed internal comms. General Shankar’s Liberation Hand detached completely, cut off all communication. They’re the ones who do the hard work of arson, kidnapping, arms smuggling, and political assassinations. We’ve gone quiet, but we’re still here, waiting for the right moment to join our hands. Asleep, but not dead.

I never knew the Red Hand when it was united. All I’ve ever known is Masiji’s Internal Hand and our protection of civilians in the Narrows. I dream of the day when I can become a lieutenant in the Liberation Hand and walk alongside General Shankar. When we can raise our resistance from the ashes and demand equality for all Downlanders. For now, I’m just a trainee. Some day. One day. I hope.

It’s not in human nature to recede and give up. We all fight. Life wants to continue even if Solace says you’re unfit for the future.

I stand shoulder to shoulder with all types of poor slops who’d traded their jobs in maintenance and data centers to maintain the new automated systems. While we are in this together, when they push me, I push back harder, but not at my full strength. If I don’t shove, I’d be trampled. None of us are allowed to live with the Uplanders in Central’s Stratas inside the Ring, not without money and a proper neural-synch, and that’s a Solace test we didn’t pass. We can only visit to work, to be their lowly assistants.

Or work as agents of the Red Hand fighting to undo the system that kills us.

I walk to the booth and hand the gatekeeper the scrap of paper Dr. Qasim gave me. “How’s the night shift, Romil? Catch any smugglers?” Romil is Red Hand, but we never talk about it in public. He lifts his gaze toward me, and it always knocks me off balance. His two bright blue, electrified eyes, backlit and cybernetically enhanced, fit squarely where his flesh-eyes should be. They make his scarred, round face look obsolete somehow. I’ve never asked him, but rumor is he lost them in a chemical fire. But his smile makes him seem kind, to me at least. As the leader of the clandestine spy network of the Internal Hand, he can literally see through walls, though most don’t know about the added upgrades The Mechanic made to his standard ocular replacements.

Romil’s belly shakes when he laughs. “Eh, not yet. Declaring . . . produce? That’s a new one. What happened to metal scraps, cables, or batteries? That would be less . . . er . . . conspicuous.”

Above Romil’s head are holo-screens of the missing. Peeking out from beneath a poster announcing AllianceCon is a black and white image of some poor kid from the Narrows. “Lost,” it reads. “Will pay for return.” There are too many missing and lost to count. And where they are is anyone’s guess. Most kids were abandoned on orphan trains during the Great Migration from coastal areas. When parents couldn’t afford to move their whole family to higher ground, they’d send their children to the cities hoping someone would care for them. Decades later, people still hoped to be reunited. But lately, kids go missing all the time from the Narrows and no one knows why.

I open the top of the bag to show him the tops of wilted greens and vegetables. “For your sick mother.” I wink and slide a vial of medicine under a pile of wilted greens. I know his mother. She trades the best sweets in the undermarket.

As he slides my papers back to me, he winks and says, “Tell your sister hello.”

I nod and lift the paper and whatever he’s put underneath it into my jacket pocket. Cameras all around, better safe than in containment. He turns up the volume on his holo-screen that’s projecting the State of the Planetary Union. I stand back and watch as Romil checks another person’s books. A small crowd gathers alongside me to watch the screen.

President Liu was recently elected by the Provinces to lead the PAC. The Province leaders all look angry even though they are sitting at a half-moon table side-by-side, like they’re best friends. He sits between the leaders of the American Province and Asian Province. That’s no mistake. They wouldn’t enter the room if they had to sit next to one another. Snippets of quotes from the meeting run across the bottom ticker: “Liu says the Planetary Union is strong. Our provinces will work together to redistribute resources equitably across the union.” Another reads “Alliance Conference to determine funding.” Another quote reads: “Trade War Eminent: Rare Earths Declared Protected Commodity.” And: “Stalemate on Neodymium Trade.”

Neodymium. The element inside everything important. From robots to transports to computers, and the turbines that propel the Ring. Even in my replacement’s plexus. The Asian Province has the largest mining operation in the world. But the processing of neodymium pollutes like crazy, so the PAC funds them, but only so they get what they want. It’s all shady. Australian and American Provinces also have mines and are trying to build refineries, but with their limited pollution credits, they’ll never compete. The African Province just announced their new mining operation and all the world leaders are now panicky. This was exactly how WWIII began. A fight for resources. We disarmed each other of war mechas and weapons of mass destruction, but they failed to fix the problem. We have no rare earths to share. It’s only a matter of time before we fight again. And no, the Space Colony will not save us. I flip off the shadow of the Colony’s toroidal rings as they careen across the moon.

The buzz tells me there’s a UAV about ten feet above me. I clip my veil and pull my metal-threaded hood low over my head. Always move the same way, slowly, carefully. Don’t draw attention to yourself. The drones see sudden changes as threats. The UAV flies closer.

“Better move along, Ashiva.” Romil waves me through as he crunches the greens. “And be careful.”

“Thanks.” The crowd dissipates.

The scan clears me from a list of diseases, then I place my hand on a circular pad and tiny sharp needles perforate my skin like ten wasp stings. A pleasant new test for the Fever. I follow the masses to the edge of the encampments, a city outside a city. Clipping my respirator across my face, I look at the gift for my sister, Taru: a few vials of dust of different colors. Chemicals. Stuff only she understands.

As I move quickly through the Liminal Area into the Narrows, I pass familiar faces and tens more strangers. Over a million bodies down here. But I can count on my flesh hand those who know I’m Red Hand. Children play with a small rubber ball. It looks to be made of parts of tires, melted, cut, and stapled together in an awkward circle. They move fast and slow, some limp, some seem to fly. Each has a replacement body part. Either a replaced hand, foot, face, arm, leg or wires embedded in stents and replacement internal organs not visible to the human eye. But I see. I know. A girl steals the ball from a boy, pivots, then kicks it to another girl on her team. I cheer. The lucky ones get replacements. The lucky ones who survived the orphan trains, the floods, nuclear fallout, the Crimson Riots, the explosions from the Last Vidroh, disease, starvation . . . the lucky ones. Those who survived, they are now like potent stars crushed into a tiny speck of power, infinitely stronger. Not physical strength. Remade again with scraps of biotech smuggled by me and my team, the Red Hand runners. We bring the parts to the Commander and she completes their replacement surgery in her laboratory. We might be poor. But we are scientists, engineers, soldiers. The Uplanders closed the gates. But we survive. The boys laugh and cheer as the girl kicks the precious ball hard and far into a makeshift goal between two concrete blocks in the distance. For them. It’s all for them.

The Narrows is a shanty city that blooms at the neocity’s edge. Population: one million. The Narrows project was abandoned when Solace Corp decided that automation and construction of the neocity Central would be more efficient for the South Asian Province and so would investing in neural-synchs for Central’s smaller, elite population. They built the Ring that filters the air and installed the neural-synchs linked to Solace to the minds of the genetically clean and wealthy. So out here in the forgotten landscape of the Narrows, some buildings have windows, others don’t. They just left the area unfinished and the Downlanders took them apart, piece by piece, and rebuilt our houses, the undermarket and schools. Reused and remade, our shanty city stands, half-finished skeletons of concrete and metal. We built a latticed canopy that covers the entire length of the Narrows to block the sun, but more so to cover us from the UAV drones. We stay inside, they don’t follow us. Many of us live two lives: one in Central, as their grunts, and one outside in the Narrows, as ourselves. They can take our jobs, our lives, our city, but we continue in spite. Though we don’t have a Ring controlling the climate and cleaning our toxic air, Central installed a sea wall to protect us from the rising water. Another pathetic attempt to show their sympathy through empty, useless actions. All show, all the time. The civilians in the Narrows put their trust in the Red Hand. We are their secret, unofficial protectors—they guard our identities and don’t ask questions. We make sure they’re fed and have replacements. Make sure their children can just be kids sometimes.

And though we rest, the Red Hand never sleeps.

The Arabian Sea is to the right and Central City to the left, with the light dome the electricity makes covering it like a terrarium. The joyful sound of children laughing carries in the air, but I can’t see a soul. Then it comes, a UAV buzzing, hovering like a massive metal insect. We call them machchar because they make the annoying, high-pitched whizzing sound of a metal mosquito. One child appears suddenly from behind a dumpster. She’s smiling, happy, just a girl waiting for the UAV to inspect her.

“Unfit,” it says and buzzes around her, flashing a blue light.

Then another child appears, then another, and before long the UAV has at least ten faces to take in and survey. They’re all trying not to laugh, but someone lets out a nervous giggle. Then I see. Standing atop the dumpster, a boy holds a slingshot and aims it at the UAV as it is busy with their faces. The projectile tethers around the UAV just below the Solace Corp logo without disrupting it, a rock attached to a thin rope that’s carrying a long sign. As it finishes with their faces, declaring them all “unfit” but “registered & cleared” and moves on, I see the sign reads, “kick me.”

We all die laughing. Defacing a UAV is two transgressions, but not if they don’t get caught. Kids even in dire straits need to be kids or else we lose. If we live only in fear, we lose. If we can’t be human anymore, we lose. Small acts of rebellion are as important as large-scale ones. As soon as the sign’s in place they all scatter like dust. I whistle to the gatekeeper and he signals to the girl on guard duty. We all take shifts, which is easy considering there are so many of us.

“Open the gate,” he yells.

The massive metal wall shifts on wheels to the right and I walk through, waving to the crew as I pass. While I want to sit and watch the sunrise caught in the smoke-thick air, speed’s important.

“Hey, behanji. Thought you finally slipped up,” my little street brother, Zamir, stands from his seat on a metal barrel and walks alongside me. He’s called me sister since the first day he saw me in the orphanage, the day we were selected by Red Hand.

“Still got it, hero. What’d I tell you?” I ask.

“‘They can’t catch the righteous.’” Zami looks tired. He must’ve waited for me for hours. “Sure, even with your replacement arm you’re only human. And still only a runner, not a Red Hand Liberation lieutenant yet, if I remember correctly.”

“That’s more than I can say for them. And hey, any day now.” I laugh and watch Zami’s half remade face glimmer chrome in the fluorescent torch light. He doesn’t laugh with me.

“If the Liberation Hand is still alive, you mean,” he says.

“Oh, they’re alive. General Shankar is still leading.”

“How do you know? We haven’t heard from him in years.” When Zami grimaces, his replacement jaw and cheek glimmer in the light unevenly.

“I know. I just know.” He has to be. If he’s not alive, we have zero chance of reuniting the Red Hand cells in order to make a coordinated assault on the SA and Central one last time. If he’s not alive . . . I can’t even imagine that future. “What’s really bothering you, bhai? No water at the chug-chug today? Your face looks worried.”

“Shiv, Taru went missing.”

I stop. “What happened?”

“We don’t know. They gave level one Red Hand recruits their assignments today. And all we know is that after she got hers, she left the Narrows to go into the Liminal Area. Probably to take a walk. But . . .”

“Dhat, the goonda crew has been searching for a kid with her talents. She’s been talking about them like they’re better than us. I’ve gotta go.”

“Sister, relax. You’ve done everything you can, and she knows how fragile she is. You’ve told her not to fall. She knows to be careful. But you’ve built a fence around her. People don’t like being in cages.”

“So, it’s my fault?” It is my fault. Anything that happens to Taru is my fault. I should have done more to keep her safe. Her fake diagnosis of juvenile osteoporosis doesn’t seem to keep her very still anymore. It used to when she was younger. But she’s getting braver. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t falsified her records. Sure, her bones aren’t great. She had several fractures from a training skirmish when she was little. But I had to do something more. Right when she had her casts off after the accident, she wanted to leave, to go into the Liminal Area. She wouldn’t sit still. It was dangerous being so young, stupid, and so mobile. So, I exaggerated her medical records and talked Masiji into supporting my lie. For Taru’s sake. For her. It was supposed to be temporary, just until she learned the ways of this world. It wasn’t supposed to go on this long. But the lies piled around me like landmines.

No one knows the weight of my lies and the regret that fills me like liquid hot metal.

“No, I didn’t mean that. She’s weak, I know. She can break at any time. But the more you push, the further she will go. Just let her return when she’s ready.”

I swallow hard. “I know she went to find Ravni’s crew.” I put my arm out to stop Zami’s pace. “Stupid kids.” The goonda crew runs the Liminal Area outside the Narrows. They are anarchists, outlaws, daaku. All they care about is agitating all sides. Damn the chaos makers.

“Maybe. She did mention she wanted to make fireworks to sell for AllianceCon as a side hustle. But—” Zami pauses.

“But what?”

“What if the daaku used her to build an explosive for another plan to take down the Ring?”

Zami averts my gaze. “That’ll blow all the good groundwork the Red Hand has been doing.”

“It would hurt my chances of going up for lieutenant in Liberation Hand; any noise will derail the whole thing. More UAVs. They don’t like messes. I’m going to kill Ravni.” Everything goes white. Ravni, the leader of the goonda crew is a killer. She coaxes you in close with charming conversation, like a lovely little spider. Then, suddenly you realize she’s built a web around you and you’re done. Her crew of thieves strip you of everything. My heart thumps in my ears like a laser cannon and I want to throttle her. “I need to go. You take the package to Masiji.”

“No. You can’t just solve everything with fists. You’ll never find Ravni anyway. They’re laying low in the tunnels.” Zami holds my shoulders. Even though he’s younger than me, he’s taller. “Shiv, you are a warrior. Fearless. But so, so stupid. The dumbest smart person I’ve ever known.”

I throw my hands in the air. And they’d love to get ahold of my little sister’s gift of alchemy and chemistry to make a thing of destruction.

He shakes his head. Zami lifts my chin so we are eye to eye. “Taru needs you. When she turns up, remember that she has probably already learned her lesson.”

“Right, okay.” I nod and gently pat the bag at my side. “Fine. Need to get this to Masiji, then I’ll find Taru.”

Zami nods and presses his forehead to mine.

We duck through a low doorway and enter a sea of tunnels. At the end of the maze is an entrance with a sign for a seamstress. The secret compound, our home, is the orphanage called The Children of Without. Rooms border the central courtyard, that house the children and caregivers. The latticed roofs connect all the makeshift structures to avoid the UAVs above, but they also cut us off from seeing the sky. I miss the sky, even with its yellow-orange haze and shocks of electrified clouds filled with acid raid.

“Hello, Ashiva. Zamir.”

We both stop.

Mrs. Zinaat is the Red Hand’s Internal Recruitment Commander. There was a rumor that she was a professor once, that she had a large family with three small children who all died in the Last Vidroh, collateral damage as people fled Central into the Narrows. She makes me nervous every time I see her. It’s like she can see I’m full of lies and trouble. Next to her tall, peaceful, thin-nosed, and pious form, we all look shoddy. She’s delicate and strong, like iron lace. Always wearing a dupatta to cover her long hair, but never sweating like the rest of us.

“Salaam, Mrs. Zinaat-ji. Have you seen Masiji? I have a package,” I say and look down at the broken concrete to avoid her piercing gaze. She caught me stealing a ration pod at langar when I was six. Instead of turning me in, she made me put it back, and taught me the five lessons about respect and the way of the Red Hand. That if we steal we are taking from the most vulnerable and are as bad as the Uplanders. That every day our job is to undo the PAC’s work, and free our people and those around the world who are also suffering at the hands of their governments. I never stole again. Not from the Narrows, at least.

She presses her well-worn hands together and smiles the best someone her age can. I think she is probably only forty, but breathing our polluted air for that long causes lung-rot and damages the joints. Most only live to fifty, middle age is thirty. My future is like a slowly closing door and those around me are illustrations of various endings. It probably wouldn’t be so bad if this is all we knew. But humans were living well beyond one hundred and twenty only a quarter of a century ago. Central steals time from us, the most sinister punishment. She looks me and Zami up and down carefully, then points to the temple door. “She’s been waiting for you. But she’s in the middle of Open Speak.”

“Shukran,” I say, thanking her.

We walk back to the main area, enter another tunnel, then stop at the doors made of thick scrap metal, the strongest stuff.

Zami whispers to me, “Let’s go inside.”

I pull off my combat boots and rinse my feet with the filtered water in a small bowl before entering the temple room. Inside, time stands still. Images of gods and goddesses, gurus and teachers hang on the walls, an unbiased, multi-belief room of hope. Poverty is nondenominational.

Open Speak in the temple is the weekly civilian grievance session. When we enter, I inhale the rich smoke of incense, and hopes, dreams, and frustrations of the Narrows. Mostly, people voice their concerns about food and supplies, or the odd gripe with a neighbor or domestic problem. But it usually devolves to a complaint about food or the heat. The two ways we die.

Masiji’s shadow is wide and dark in the center of the room. She’s surrounded by a hundred people or more. People are sitting on the floor, standing, and those who need a chair have them. Zami and I keep to the shadows and listen. Civilians and Red Hand alike share the room. Though most civilians don’t know and don’t want to know who are part of Red Hand. We protect them, feed them, train those who want to be fighters, and they forget our names and faces when they are questioned by guardians. Safer for all, plausible deniability is key. Masiji is known as the Mayor of the Narrows here by most. But to me . . .

She is strength incarnate.

Our leader. Our Mechanic. Our Savior. Our Commander.

The metal on her body jostles as she paces. “There will be a time when we will face an impossible choice. We worry about our survival, the chug-chug bots that are constantly breaking down. We argue about how many ration pods they send us. We can fight all we want for more food and water, to eliminate the UAVs. But that’s missing the point. We have to imagine a future outside the Narrows. This is an encampment. It was never supposed to last more than a year. But here we are, twenty-five years later.”

People are agitated. These aren’t the same complaints about the water machines going awry again, or fussy bots that find it harder and harder to de-sal and decontaminate and de-radiate our food and water. No, this is not the same problem of broken sewage systems and food supply that is late, again—forever. There’s a desperate urgency in the air.

“We need to take Central for ourselves,” chimes in a boy I know is a runner for the Red Hand. Chand, the big, old teddy bear of a smuggler. He knows better than to speak up now. Masiji sends him a dagger look and shuts him up fast.

A petite girl stands. “We need to see if we can gather our forces. We need to reach abroad to the world. We need unity now across all people suffering in the world. It’s the only way.” She makes me so proud. I know her from somewhere, but can’t place it. From the orphanage, or maybe she’s a new recruit.

I turn to Zami and whisper, “That one. Is she inside?”

“I’ll look into it. She’d be good for us. She’s got first-rate recruit vibes,” he whispers back. The girl sits down again, respectfully cross-legged on the floor with everyone else.

Masiji’s replacement leg is naked chrome uncovered by the silicone that many choose to hide their cyborg parts. The joints hiss and puff as she paces. Her tunic is dark brown and black with shocks of orange woven with metal, like a warrior. Her gaze is fierce.

Masiji continues amongst the moans and affirmations. “That’s right, beti. Those of us who are old enough to remember have witnessed a paradigm shift of the human mind and body.” She taps her forehead referencing the plexus we have that runs our replacements and the uplanders’ neural-synchs.

A woman stands and says, “Mechanic, what about the rumors of the Fever? Is it true?”

“Is it a pandemic? We’d see the GHO at our doorsteps if it were. So far, there have been unconfirmed cases in the Upland, but not here. It’s not to worry about,” Masiji says.

“They don’t care about the Unsanctioned Territory, or the districts in the East and West. The neocity is their focus. The North hasn’t been in contact with us—not since the nuclear bombs triggered the avalanches. They herd us like cattle. Treat us like we’re animals even though we don’t have the diseases they’re looking for,” the woman continues.

“Once the GHO makes a recommendation, we’ll know more.”

Some nod, others shake their heads.

Masiji takes a step back and says, “We have bigger things to worry about than the Fever. Planetary President Liu will stand by Planet Watch’s statement that our rights should be protected by the higher courts—even under the New Treaty.”

“How do you know they will? Why would they care?” A woman’s voice is tired, strained.

A young man chants, “The New Treaty should burn with the PAC!” Others join his call.

Masiji is unfazed. “The Treaty only states that resources should be redistributed within the population as seen fit by that particular Province’s leadership. It only states that we can’t use weapons of mass destruction or kill a population outright. So, our anger should be directed at our Province government, along with their solution: Solace. Once the world sees the fallout of Solace and Central, they’ll be forced to change the treaty. We are not alone. Once we reconnect with our allies, we will undo their laws.”

“Why don’t we all just move to Greenland?” someone blurts out and the crowd laughs. “Or the African Province—their new forests are rooting well.” Wishful thinking. We all know we aren’t allowed to leave our home Provinces. No migration under the New Treaty.

“We can’t trust the PAC again. Not since the Void.” The girl trembles this time when she stands. The one who spoke up earlier about joining forces, the one we marked for recruitment.

A heavy silence falls on the room like a thick shadow. And all eyes turn to Masiji.

She faces the girl with a click of her heels. “The Void was just a story cooked up by Central to scare us into submission. There’s no PAC-sanctioned prison.” Masiji says with a finality that shuts the crowd up.

The Void. Whispers of a planetary prison set on the boundary between territories. Larger than just a regular containment prison, it was said that once someone was taken there, they would cease to exist. No funeral. No letters. No visitations. Erasure. Most say it’s a lie, that no one group has this power. But sometimes I wonder if it’s real. People have searched and failed to find it. A rumor buzzed about it being in orbit in space. But that would cost too much. If it is real, it has to keep moving somehow.

The girl stands with a bowed head. “Masiji, forgive me, but my father . . .”

Then I remember her. The girl. The family. The whole story. Her father went missing after working in Central as an assistant to a city official who was under investigation for corruption. Disappeared. Never seen again. She’s been speaking up to anyone who will listen ever since. But we all have so many problems that our ears are full.

I hit Zami in the arm. “See? Real.”

“I still think it’s just a bad fairy tale,” Zami says.

“Someone will find it. Hold them accountable,” I whisper.

The rising voices hush when an elderly man tries to stand from his chair. Daadaji, Red Hand’s Internal Colonel, but the civilians only know him as Old Grandfather. He was a soldier in the Last Vidroh with the Liberation Hand, but retired when he was unable to run field missions. He came to the Narrows to assist in the duties of managing the resistance messaging in the Narrows and grow our movement. Daadaji wears drawstring pants that are too big on his body, save for the frayed rope that holds them up on his slender hips. But his T-shirts he gets from the donation pile. Today he’s wearing a ratty gray T-shirt that reads “Have a Nice Day” in pink cursive. He’s a cheeky old bastard with eyes that are younger than the face they’re set in. It takes him forever to rise, but we wait for him and for his comments out of respect.

The old man clears his throat. “We have been angry for a long time. I fought at Central’s gates. We have died for this cause. Central’s weapons are bigger. Their numbers are greater. Their resources and people are optimized. They spend all their time and money building the Space Colony, for what? We have nothing. Belief is not enough to change this. You can believe all you want, but that won’t help us trade places with the Uplanders. When will we fight?”

Masiji walks toward him. “Daadaji, I have made our children stronger than theirs. They just don’t know it yet. Sometimes those who can’t hear us or see us need to remember. Solace has silenced the Narrows. They wait for the seas to rise so they can blame our erasure on natural disaster.”

A woman says, “So, Mechanic, what are you saying?”

“We should make them remember us. We worry about food, shelter, thermal death when what we need is for the world to see us. We need to take the battle to their door with our allies.”

The crowd pulses with energy.

“We need the world to see the reality of their Central city, their precious Solace!” Masiji presses her right hand to her chest and the crowd does the same. The Red Hand. Suddenly, she sees me and Zami. Her eyebrows rise. “We are all Red Hand.”

This act of defiance shakes the crowd. All suspicions confirmed. Masiji just announced she’s a member of the Red Hand. Though not everyone in the Narrows is a part of the Red Hand, we are their only government, their only hope.

“Calm down, brothers and sisters.” Masiji’s voice rises above the rest.

A girl says, “Death to the uppers.”

A boy says, “No more war.”

Masiji waves her hands and in her deepest voice speaks above the din. “Enough!”

All voices inside hush.

She continues, “Langar is served. Please exit the temple and move to the courtyard.” People are hungry. Hunger outweighs anger every time. The crowd dissolves and when a path is clear, she comes towards us. We follow her into a quiet room and close the door behind us.

“There you are. I thought you were taken to containment, or worse,” Masiji says, whipping her long braid over her shoulder. She still wears her protective mechanic gear, metal apron, gloves, and goggles on her forehead. Masiji must’ve been in her workshop, as she smells of rust and soot.But her gear is polished and perfect. It’s how she shows she is of the people.

“You’d miss me too much,” I say. “I brought you something. Dr. Qasim remembers you well.” I set the bag down carefully on a thick mat.

Masiji removes her gear and piles it on the floor. Her gait shifts from left to right heavily because of her replacement leg.

“Tiger,” she hugs me.

Under the wilted vegetables is a box the shape of a massive egg. With a click, the box opens and inside we all see a sleeping infant. Dr. Qasim insulated her transport box with padding and an oxygen system around her small frame. She must be only a few months old.

“This is the youngest yet,” I say.

Zami smiles at the baby and asks, “What should we name her?”

“Jiva, for her soul that’s kept her alive. What a gift.” Masiji presses her hands together in prayer. She picks up the pink-brown baby and kisses her cheeks. “Beti,” she says, and turns the baby around carefully in her hands.

I ask, “What’s wrong with her? Why’d they throw her away?”

“Nothing’s wrong with her, beti.” Masiji says. She inspects the infant’s body. “She didn’t pass the tests. Solace somehow determined her unfit for the future.” She runs her fingers over the stitches across the infant’s tiny chest. “Probably asthma or lung deformation was her downfall. They must have tried to do a lung transplant, but failed.”

“What some Uplanders will do to pass the test is disgusting,” I say.

“What they do with their children who don’t pass is even worse, throwing them away like garbage,” Masiji replies. “All they care about is their population number. Keep it small or else they can’t support their system. Overpopulation is the biggest security threat to the SA’s neocity Central. If it weren’t for Central’s exorbitant Human Tax, many more would keep their children even if they didn’t pass the test.”

“But it’s too expensive, so if they don’t pass, the parents stay, but they have to let their children go,” I comment.

“Central only offers impossible choices,” she says.

“I wouldn’t want to live there. Even if I had passed the test.” I stroke Jiva’s chubby cheek and she giggles, then drools. Masiji opens the door and calls to a woman deep in prayer.

“Poonam,” Masiji whispers, “come here please.”

“Haanji,” she replies, without missing a beat, and enters our room. Poonam Auntie is the Red Hand’s Internal Medic. She’s stout, muscular and odd. Her eyes have ghosts behind them, like she’s seen too much. And she probably has as she was a field medic and explosive specialist before the Red Hand went underground and separated into cells. Even though she’s a bit kooky and odd, I adore her. The way she dresses, like she does so in the dark, to her thick, curly black hair that spills all over the place. Her cheeks are wide and childlike. But most of all, I adore her shiny replacement hand. It’s outfitted with extra devices that make her medical tasks easier.

“Please take all look at this baby. Let me know if she needs any assistance and get her settled in the nursery.” She hands the baby to Poonam Auntie who coos a little too loudly and wakes the baby, who shrieks.

“Oh, oh sorry, beti. Sh sh, beti.” She sings her an odd lullaby about the war.

“We will have the naming ceremony after langar tonight.”

“Right-o,” Auntie bows her head to Masiji and winks at me before exiting.

My stomach growls. It’s been nearly a day since I’d tasted a ration. The snack from Mr. Belochi’s stand only woke the massive pit growing in my stomach. The mention of our communal dinner is a sharp reminder. Every evening we gather for a meal of rice, daal, and bread. The ration tablets Central airdrops to the Narrows are pounded into a flour for blue flatbread. Taking a pill strips the humanity from meals, so we do our best. Since the Red Hand split into cells and separated from our Liberation Hand completely, we are alive but ineffective. The pods make Central look good. And a sharp reminder to us of the uselessness of charity. We’re tolerated like a mosquito on a crocodile’s back.

Masiji fidgets with her pile of things, like she is taking inventory. “Okay, Zami go on to langar. And you, Tiger, go find Taru.”

Zami smirks and leaves me alone. Jerk.

“Can’t I take a meal first? It was a hard day—”

Masiji takes my arm and we leave the temple room. “I know you would rather avoid her, daughter, but don’t let the work you do for the Red Hand become more important than your duties as a sister. Don’t get so laser-focused that you become blind.”

“Blind to what?” I ask.

“Ach, Ashiva, do you remember when you found Lomri, our little Taru wandering the streets, hungry? Do you remember what you said to me when you brought her here against my wishes? Our broken little Lomri?” She looks at me and waits for me to let her words sink in.

“Of course, that I would give her my ration at least until she was stronger. So?”

Masiji looks lost in thought. “That’s what’s important.”

“I’m a good smuggler. A good runner for the Red Hand. I’ll be promoted to a lieutenant station with the Liberation Hand soon. Haven’t I done everything you asked?”

Masiji stops walking and holds my hand a little too tight. “You are the best at what you do. But don’t forget what we’re fighting for. Each other. Don’t lose sight of that. Taru needs you as a sister today, not as a warrior. Her day was harder than yours. Have some empathy, girl.”

I take in my bare feet. All scratched and calloused and stubby toes.

“Ashiva.” Her voice is not a question. “Today she was given her assignment. She was placed with the Internal Hand.” She looks at me with raised eyebrows.

A stinging heat runs up from my stomach to my eyes. “Okay, good.” I nod, but I’m not sure this is good. In fact, this is very bad. I am relieved she was assigned to stay put. But that’s why she took off. She was ticked.

“She’ll be safe in Internal Hand for now. She can work with Poonam Auntie as a medic assistant and later maybe she can work on her weapons projects. Just as you wanted. But she won’t be happy. And if she ever finds out what you’ve done . . .”

“Achcha.” Yes, I am afraid at what I did. Threatening my allegiance for Taru’s safety inside the Internal Hand. All she’s ever wanted was to be in the External Hand, to go far away from here, to work in science and be placed as a spy inside another government. To get out of the Narrows, to have a future beyond the slums. All she wants is to leave the Narrows, leave us. And I’ve just gone and built a concrete wall around her. If it keeps her from breaking, so be it.

“She’ll hate you for it, but maybe in time she’ll realize it’s your way of showing your love.”

“Promise me. Never tell her.”

She salutes me.

I return the gesture.

Masiji says, “Just remember: Keeping someone from dying isn’t the same as letting someone live.”

“Copy, Mechanic. Loud and clear.”

She shakes her head at me and I shrug. Agree or disagree, I’ll never win with her.