one

PASADENA LEVEL 5—MONDAY, JULY 3, 2141 2:00 P.M.

I WALKED PAST THE greenhouses, breathing in air thick with the memories of open sky and soaring peaks—a world away from this damn city that wanted to suffocate me with every step. The smells of flowers and earth, carried in the slight breeze generated by the overhead fans, quelled the uneasiness inside me for the first time in weeks. I could almost imagine there wasn’t a ceiling over my head.

Almost.

I stopped to stare past the shinrin-yoku sign on my right. It meant “forest bathing,” a place to relax, to lose yourself in the trees—in nature—where the worries of the world could fall away for a while. To me, it used to be one of the most beautiful places in San Angeles. Now it held a barely heard whisper of memories. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be distracted, wouldn’t let the hurt pull me in. The promise was as empty as I felt.

Past the sign, through the greenhouse’s open doors, warm grow lights reflected off the slender white trunks of birch trees, their branches of delicate leaves reaching for the ceiling. A carpet of tender green grass grew between the strong roots, interspersed by gravel paths worn flat by people who could afford to live up here.

We’d buried Ian’s ashes in there only two short weeks ago.

I held back a cry. Pain and loss cascaded through me, raw, untempered, tearing down walls I’d barely had a chance to build around open wounds that hadn’t had time to heal.

Without realizing, I moved my hands to my belly, resting them there gently. At eight weeks, I was hardly showing, but to me it was obvious. I dragged my hands away, shoving them deep into my pockets.

Pat had told me to wait, told me it was too soon to get back into the field. She didn’t know about the baby—no one but Doc Searls did—but she was worried it was too close to Ian’s death. I couldn’t wait anymore. Sitting alone in the small room the insurgents had given me was slowly turning my brain into mush. The walls pressed in on me, and I had nothing but time. Time to remember, time to dream of what had been lost. Time to go over what I could have done differently. It was all time wasted.

This was my first run for the insurgents since I’d decided to take back control. Seeing the trees, I wasn’t sure I had made the right choice. Ian’s loss was still too fresh. It was my fault he was gone. What if I made another bad decision? Would someone else die? I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing for the baby either, if I had the right to put him in danger.

A hand touched my hip—a light touch, and then it vanished—followed by a hissed “Hey.” I didn’t have time to react. Someone from my team—her name couldn’t fight through the onslaught of memories—strolled past me as though the touch was accidental. I realized I’d stopped walking. How long had I stood here, staring at the trees?

Now was not the time. Never was the time. Not now, not tomorrow. Never. I had work to do, and people—families—on the lower Levels were waiting for the food I would help bring back. What was it that Ian had said to me once? Fake it till you make it. Don’t let them know you’re hurting, don’t let them know you’re unsure. Just do it.

I turned my back on the greenhouse and crossed the street, mingling with the afternoon crowds going back to work, or maybe just trying to enjoy the day. Our goal was ahead of us, two greenhouses down from the stark white trunks. Unlike the shinrin-yoku greenhouse, this one wasn’t open to the public. It was SoCal-owned, like most things in San Angeles were, and its interior was shrouded in soft, opaque windows. The buildings went on forever, two rows separated by a parkway with benches and real grass, vibrant under artificial lights. This was one of the hundreds of places where SoCal grew its food for the lower levels. It would end up on grocery store shelves on Levels 4 and 5 until it got too old, then it would be moved to Levels 2 and 3. Level 1 got whatever was left after that. At least that’s how it used to work. Now it all went straight to Level 6 to feed the rich. The privileged.

SoCal was one of the big three corporations that owned most of the world’s resources and production. They’d built San Angeles and controlled almost everything in it. We were here to hijack one of the trucks loaded with fresh produce and get the food to the lower levels, where it was so desperately needed. Where it belonged.

There was a small loading dock on one end of the SoCal greenhouse that could only fit a couple of trucks at a time, yet there never seemed to be a lineup. A new truck showed up seconds after the old one left. Each one had a single driver that helped load it before driving off. They all took the most direct route to the closest up-ramp, waved through security after a cursory inspection.

The insurgents had sent a small team to grab a truck last week. They’d failed. By the looks of things, their botched attempt had changed the procedure a little. The driver that got out of the vehicle wore a sidearm, and I thought I saw a passenger in the darkened cab. Two people would make it tougher. The guns even more so. I grabbed my comm unit and connected with our team leader.

“Billy’s gonna bring a friend and some toys,” I said.

“No worries, thanks.” The link closed and I tucked the comm unit away.

We had ten minutes before the truck finished loading.

I strolled past the greenhouse, keeping up with everyone else, and pulled the comm unit out of my pocket again. I punched in my access code. The insurgents had guaranteed this corner wasn’t monitored—one of the dead spots in the network—and I could change my tracker ID. I made sure there were no drones overhead and cycled the ID. It still seemed strange, knowing I and almost every other person in San Angeles had a tracker embedded in them. They injected us with a vaccine when we were kids. It contained the tracker, which sent out coded signals with every heartbeat. ACE had learned how to cover the technology with their own, making the signals modifiable. Almost no one knew about the trackers. First ACE, the extinct anti-corporate movement, and now the insurgents wanted to keep it a secret. I still didn’t understand why.

The new ID made me out to be a simple courier. Once I got on my bike, I’d blend in with the background traffic. I laughed at simple courier. It had been a long time, a lifetime, since I’d been that. Everything was simpler back then.

I recrossed the street and walked between the greenhouses to the parkway. The sight of the burned-out hulk ahead reminded me of Janice, when she’d tried to kill me and Pat. My pace slowed for a second before I pushed her from my mind. I didn’t have time for that now.

One of the others on my recon team passed by me, heading in the opposite direction. He was a young kid. Too young to be thrust into something like this. The insurgents didn’t seem to have any issues with using kids. They’d proven that when they’d used them to blow up water stations on the upper levels. It took me a while to realize he was probably only a year or two younger than I was. We walked by without looking at each other. There were three of us for a reason, and if he’d been identified and monitored by SoCal, we didn’t want them to learn about anyone else on the team.

The fact that I’d been placed on recon still stung. The insurgents knew what I could do—what I had done—and threw me in with the rest of the newbies anyway. They couldn’t use my pregnancy as an excuse, since they didn’t know about it, so I figured it was out of spite for leaving Pat behind when I tried to get Ian. I stopped that line of thought right away. There was no point in going over those events again. I’d done it too often already.

In theory, the only saving grace was the job Pat, Kai, and I were doing for Doc Searls. His son was still missing, and we’d promised the Doc we’d look for him. In truth, I hadn’t done much on that either. It was tough to get anything done when you locked yourself in your room.

My task here was to watch the loading of the truck and call ahead as soon as it left the dock. With the tight schedule they kept, it seemed like a waste of time—except that now I’d seen the guns. My job, after the recon, was to follow the truck when it drove out of Pasadena, just to make sure it stayed on route, and then peel off before it reached the intercept point. Like I said, newbie work.

My bike was parked off the main greenhouse and restaurant strip. I headed that way. The other two on recon would stay behind, verifying that the pattern of trucks stayed the same. If it varied, chances were someone knew the delivery was going to be attacked.

I walked past a small street bistro with a swanky name I couldn’t pronounce, surprised it was still open. With most of our food going up to the higher levels, a lot of restaurants had closed. It was tough to sell what you didn’t have. A young couple sat at one table, the waiter hovering behind them. They didn’t even see me. I was just another courier. The bike was parked a little farther down the street. I grabbed my lid off the handlebars and thumbed the bike’s lock. A short ride past the greenhouses and a quick U-turn should put me behind the departing truck.

I was riding by the greenhouse when the truck pulled out. A couple of cars drove between us. I kept my spot and followed it, opening a comm link to let the hijack team know I was in place. The connection was made, but no one spoke. I gave my information and closed the link again.

The truck switched lanes, getting ready to make a left turn. I ended up right on its tail. As it accelerated around the corner heading for the ramp, I passed it on the right, stealing a glance through the passenger window. There were definitely two people in there.

Construction choked the road ahead, diverting traffic coming toward us down a side street, but letting us through. This was it. I raced through the gap and turned right, planning to come back up behind the truck.

The construction had been here all day, put up by the insurgents early this morning, and dozens of trucks had already passed through. This truck and driver would have come through here more than once, taking full loads up and empty ones back.

I zipped around the block, stopping a hundred meters away from the workers. From here, I could see the operation was already unfolding. The truck sat midconstruction waiting for men to carry equipment across the single lane. Almost from nowhere, two masked insurgents ran to the side doors of the truck and yanked them open.

Gunfire pierced the air, and I slammed my bike into gear as the insurgents fell to the ground. By the time I got behind the truck, it was over, and the relative silence of the city descended on us.

I pulled the bike into the construction, stopped, and jumped off, barely giving myself time to put down the kickstand. I sprinted to the driver’s door and almost tripped over the bodies of the insurgents. The driver was still alive. His chest was covered in blood and his eyes were out of focus. He kept blinking, looking confused. I yanked him from his seat and let him fall to the ground, climbing in to take his place.

The construction crew had disappeared when the gunfire started—their job was done as soon as the attack began. Tromping on the accelerator, I raced away from the devastation, the forward momentum of the truck slamming the doors shut. I turned down the same corner I’d taken with my bike and made a beeline for the closest down-ramp. The body in the seat beside me shifted. His head fell in my lap. I shivered and pushed it away, leaving a smear of blood on my pants.

The down-ramp was five blocks away. Once I reached the bottom, a support team would pick me up, and I’d have some protection on my way to the next ramp straight down to Level 2.

I had time to think about what had happened. What the hell was I doing? I’d put myself and my son directly in harm’s way and hadn’t even thought about it. That’s not how an expectant mother is supposed to act.

Only two minutes had passed since the first shot, but it felt like an hour. I glanced out the window, banging my helmet against the glass, and scanned the ceiling for drones. The tightness of being boxed in grabbed hold of me and I held back a shudder. On the bike, I would have been able to tell if I’d been picked up. The thin slice of ceiling offered through the truck’s window didn’t show anything, but how could I really be sure?

When the front tires hit the down-ramp, I breathed a sigh of relief. At the bottom, I’d have others to watch for me. I opened the comm link again and let them know I was on the way. My hands shook as I took the first corner.

SOCAL SAT CITY 2—MONDAY, JULY 3, 2141 2:20 P.M.

Bryson Searls sat in a black chair with webbed backing and some of the best lumbar support he’d ever had. The desk in front of him was the perfect height, allowing him access to the terminal while his elbows were bent at slightly less than ninety degrees. SoCal was doing everything possible to make him feel comfortable.

It wasn’t working.

The screen, at an almost exact fifty-two–centimeter distance, had been blank for the last forty minutes. His mind had shut down yet again. There was a time when he’d loved doing the work. He’d enjoyed playing with the equations that floated through his consciousness, visualizing the different combinations to find an optimal solution and then comparing them with what the computer had calculated.

That joy was gone. When he thought about it, which was more often than was probably healthy, he could pinpoint the exact moment in time when it had soured in his gut and turned first to hatred, then to apathy, and finally to fear.

The hatred started when he’d been told the test pilots of the first human flight of his quantum jump drive had died, and his employer didn’t care. The apathy started when Meridian had been taken over by Kadokawa, and they’d forced him to continue his work. Meridian had been a smaller corporation with aspirations to be one of the big three. Bryson had worked for them since getting out of university. After the failed flight, Kadokawa had stepped in and taken control of Meridian’s assets.

The fear was more recent. He wanted to think it started when he was kidnapped outside the Chinese restaurant, or maybe when he’d met Ms. Peters. He’d been scared then. Who wouldn’t have been? But the turning point had come when she called in the guard with the cricket bat to beat the information out of him. His instinct had been to run, to get away as fast as he could. The only problem was, there was no place to go.

Once he’d scurried to do what she’d asked, the guard was sent away. But she made it quite clear he wasn’t far. Bryson had sat in the folding metal chair, answering all her questions, holding nothing back. The interview had gone on for hours.

Ms. Peters had taken the memory chip he’d created before escaping from Kadokawa. It contained all of his research and data on the quantum jump drive, including the information on the working system. It had become corrupted somehow. Maybe it had happened when he’d created it—he’d been so panicked about not getting caught that he hadn’t double-checked after it had been written. Maybe it happened when he’d been mugged outside the Hotel Ruby.

The screen in front of him flashed back to life. The computer had finished its calculations. Values swam across the screen as the general background noise of the lab cut through Bryson’s meandering thoughts. He forced himself to focus on the output until the numbers stopped looking like gibberish.

Without the information on the chip, he had to recreate his experiments that had led to the data. In theory, the work should have been moving faster, but between trying to get the other people in the lab up to speed and his general feeling of malaise, it was slow going. The delays were turning Ms. Peters into a demon.

As if on cue, the inside airlock door opened and everyone stopped talking.

Bryson didn’t turn around to see who it was; only one person had that effect. Instead, he leaned closer to the screen and started tracing columns of numbers with his middle finger. It was his way of giving it to Ms. Peters without, hopefully, her catching on.

The sound of high heels clicking on the raised tiles of the floor stopped behind him. The blood in Bryson’s veins turned to ice as the constant fear he lived with ratcheted up a notch. He kept his eyes on the screen.

“Mr. Searls.”

The calm voice cut through the silent room like a knife. He let his hand drop and leaned back in his chair, rotating it to face her.

“Mr. Searls,” she said again. “My experts say this chip was purposely scrambled. Made that way to stop anyone from being able to read it.”

She held the chip between her thumb and forefinger, arm stretched out to where she almost touched his face. Bryson jerked back, rolling the chair into the desk so it pushed through the webbing and into his spine.

“You have nothing to say, Mr. Searls?”

“I . . . I didn’t do it.” He couldn’t keep the whine out of his voice and hated himself for sounding so scared. “It wasn’t me.”

Ms. Peters arched an eyebrow as if considering what he had said. “No? Then who did it, Mr. Searls? Perhaps someone took it from you, scrambled it, and put it back in your pocket without you noticing?”

“I told you about the mug—”

“We followed up on that. It was just a mugging, plain and simple. The nitwit that did it didn’t have the brains for anything more.”

Bryson noticed the use of past tense in her words and tried to hide the shiver that went through his frame. What had she done to him? “It could have happened at the restaurant. The old Chinese guy—”

“We don’t think so. There wasn’t any equipment on-site that could do this kind of damage, and they didn’t have the time to take it with them. No, Mr. Searls, we believe you did it before you left the Kadokawa lab. That means you can unscramble it. What is the key?”

“I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . . it wasn’t me.”

“We’ll see.” She beckoned over her shoulder and the two guards at the airlock moved to Ms. Peters’ side. “Bring him with us.”

The guards advanced, and before he could stand on his own, they grabbed his upper arms and hoisted him from the chair. Bryson barely got his feet under him before they dragged him back to the airlock. Ms. Peters was already waiting for them, an impatient look on her face. The door opened at their approach and she spun on her heels to lead the way into the small airlock. He was hauled after her.

As the airlock door closed, one of the guards reached for a cricket bat leaning against the wall. The guard didn’t turn, didn’t make any excess motion, but Bryson’s insides turned to mush. His face flushed with shame as warm fluid ran down his legs.

LOS ANGELES LEVEL 4—MONDAY, JULY 3, 2141 2:23 P.M.

I drove the truck down the ramp, going as fast as I dared without drawing too much attention. It still felt like I was on the edge of losing control as the walls flashed past the windows. The body beside me, now half on the seat and half on the floor, shifted again, wedging against the dashboard. I risked a peek. His neck was bent at a weird angle, smashed against the dash, and was the only thing stopping the body from sliding all the way down. Bile rose in my throat. I swallowed it.

The bright lights of the ramp’s exit came into view and I dragged my attention back to the road. As the truck made the transition to level ground and the walls disappeared, I glanced around the cab, avoiding the passenger side. A worn picture sat jammed into a crack on the dashboard, right beside the built-in comm unit. Smiling back at me were the cheery faces of a young boy and girl. I tore my gaze away from the picture when the comm unit built into my helmet crackled to life. I answered it.

“Drive three more blocks to Cant Street. Turn left and head for the transfer elevator.”

I did as I was told. The elevator’s doors were wide open. I slowed as I approached and was waved in.

Transfer elevators were only supposed to be used by people and emergency vehicles; no other traffic was allowed. It felt wrong to drive right in, but I followed the instructions. The only other time I’d taken one of these had been with Ian, when he’d saved me from Meridian’s assassin, Quincy, almost a year ago. Back then we’d ridden in on his motorcycle and gone from Level 2 to Level 4. This time, I was the one driving, and we were heading in the opposite direction. I made sure to keep my visor down to hide my face from the cameras in the elevator. I wasn’t sure the insurgents had disabled them, or had the ability to do it.

The elevator ride gave me a chance to examine the picture again. Was the man I’d pulled from the truck’s cab their dad? Would two kids be without a parent because of what we had done? There wasn’t supposed to have been any shooting. There weren’t supposed to have been two people in the truck in the first place, and definitely not one with a gun. They’d brought it on themselves.

I felt bad even thinking it.

Still, we had families to feed as well. We had sick children who weren’t getting the medication and the food they needed. What we were doing was right . . . wasn’t it?

Ever since the war had started, those of us on the lower levels had paid the price. If we were healthy enough to fight for the corporations, we were pulled off the streets in massive sweeps and drafted. Our kids were left as alone and scared as the truck driver’s kids would be if he ended up dying.

It didn’t make what we had done to get the food right, but it sure as hell didn’t make it wrong either.

The elevator doors opened up behind me, and I slammed the truck in reverse. The cab hadn’t even cleared the doors when there was a knock on the window. This guy I recognized. I’d seen him wandering the halls at the building the insurgents used for a base camp. I didn’t know his name. I rolled down my window.

“I’ll take over from here,” he said.

I put the truck in park and opened the door. As I slid off the seat I grabbed the picture of the kids and shoved it into my pocket. If the driver died, maybe there would be something I could do for them.

“Your bike should be here in a few minutes. Thanks for taking over up there. Our backup was too far away to help quickly.”

They weren’t backup if they were too far away. Before I could respond, he jumped in and drove back into the elevator. The doors began to close and I skipped between them as they clanged shut. I had no idea where the food was going, or how it was to be distributed, but I hoped it would end up in the right place. Where it was needed most. That’s what the insurgents were supposed to be about, helping the people.

As promised, someone rode up on my bike and parked around the corner from the elevator. I got on and started the ride back to my room. The blood on my pants had hardened into a shell, and I desperately wanted a shower. I knew I wouldn’t get one. The best I would get was a bit of water and a cloth. We’d all rather stink than die of dehydration.

I wished I could have stayed with the truck, to see where it went. There was no point to it, really, but it was a strong urge. I’d learned to not trust people in charge over the last year. First, I’d been sold out by Dispatch, my old boss when I was a courier. Even if she hadn’t really been aware of it, she’d still allowed herself to be manipulated by Quincy. And paid for it. After that I’d blindly followed ACE, going through the training and indoctrination, only to be betrayed by them as well.

No one had known Jeremy was at the head of ACE, no one except William and maybe a few others. It didn’t matter. Because of ACE, because of the rot that had started the whole damn thing, Ian was dead. The fact that ACE was gone now, destroyed by their own decayed core, didn’t make it any better.

I wasn’t going to let something like that happen again. The insurgents and I seemed to be on the same side now, but if I even saw a hint of what ACE had become, I would be gone. I didn’t know if I could deal with it again.

I rode my bike into the inter-level parking for our building and left it in my assigned spot. The place they’d given me was better than the one I had last time I lived on Level 2, but not by much. At least the bed was more comfortable than the ones at boot camp.

As I climbed the last set of stairs to my fourth-floor room, what I had done finally cut through the anger I always carried with me. What if the drones had seen me get off my bike and pull the driver from the truck? I’d had my helmet on, and I’d changed my ID, but could they trace the bike? And what if the driver had tried to shoot me? Would I be lying on the street in a pool of my own blood instead of him?

What scared me more was that I wasn’t sure I cared, except for the baby.

LOS ANGELES LEVEL 2—MONDAY, JULY 3, 2141 2:47 P.M.

Pat could see Kris tense, start to build the wall that had kept her and Kai so far away since Ian Miller had died. She swept down the short hallway outside Kris’s room and pulled her into a tight hug, trying to take some of her pain into herself. It wasn’t going to work, it never would, but it was what Kris needed. A friend, someone that was there for her. They stood by Kris’s door, holding onto each other as if their lives depended on it.

When Kris had finally relinquished control of the truck to another driver, Pat had excused herself from the situation room. She wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. If Jack, the guy in charge of this insurgent cell, had seen her there, she would have been kicked out.

It was bad enough that Kris had insisted on getting back into the field, but when she’d been given a part in the second hijack attempt, Pat had gotten angry. When Kris had taken over the driving of the truck, Pat’s anger changed to fury.

Dammit, the girl wasn’t even eighteen yet, and she’d lost everybody she ever cared for. Miller had been—still was—the worst loss of them all. Pat didn’t even want to think about what it was like to lose your first love like that, and then blame it on yourself. And that was the problem.

What had happened wasn’t Kris’s fault. It wouldn’t have mattered what she did, whether she had decided on the solo or group rescue or to let Miller defend himself, the end result would have been the same. There was nothing Kris could have done to change it, though she’d gotten damn close.

Something else was going on as well. Back at camp Kris had always been the first one to get up in the morning. She’d head out to the cliffs and climb until the rest of the camp had woken up. Now, she locked herself in her room until late in the morning, and when she finally emerged, she looked like shit.

If Pat didn’t know better, she would have thought Kris was pregnant. Hell, she did know better. But it didn’t matter. Everything pointed to the same conclusion. If it was true, why hadn’t Kris told her? Because she was still a kid. She didn’t have the tools to know how to deal with it. Hell, most adults wouldn’t.

She was in no state to send out on a mission of any kind. That was the reason Pat and Kai had agreed to look for Bryson, to make sure Kris wasn’t heading out on her own. To keep an eye on her. That hadn’t worked out too well.

Once Kris had her mind set on something, it was tough to change. She was like a dog with a favorite toy, clamping its jaws down tight and fighting with anyone who tried to take it. The problem was, if the dog lost the toy, it could always get another one. If Kris lost her life, that would be it. Some days, Pat was pretty sure that was what Kris wanted, and the thought scared her.

On days like today, the fear only enhanced the anger.

Pat had been ready for a confrontation, ready to yell and scream, to plead with Kris. Take some more time. Get help. Wounds like this don’t heal in two weeks. And Pat knew that some never healed. But when Kris had walked out of the stairwell, she’d looked beaten and tired and worn out. There was blood on her jacket and pants. Her helmet swung from her fingertips, looking like it would to slip off and smash onto the floor.

Kris was the first to break off the hug. Her eyes were puffy and some of the dried blood from her coat had flaked off and transferred to Pat’s shirt. She brushed off the flakes absently.

“I can stay with you for a while, if . . .”

Kris shook her head. “I just want to get cleaned up, you know. Get into some fresh clothes and maybe lie down for a bit.”

Pat knew how Kris felt. There’d been times—but now was not the place for those memories. Now she needed to be here for Kris.

“Will you come down for dinner?” Pat gave a small smile. “We have fresh vegetables.”

“I thought that was meant for the families . . .”

Pat saw a flicker of fight in Kris’s eyes, a bit of the old Kris coming back. “It is, but we have to eat too. We’re no use to anyone if we don’t stay healthy. Some of it stayed here, but most of it went back out. I don’t think it was enough.” She almost said it was good for the baby if Kris ate well.

Kris just nodded and moved to her door.

“So, we’ll see you at dinner?”

She leaned her head against the doorframe, and for a moment, Pat didn’t think she was going to get an answer.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

Pat put a cheery tone in her voice, hoping it masked her concern. “I’ll hold a seat for you!” She watched as Kris unlocked her door and closed it gently behind her.

That girl was in trouble.

LOS ANGELES LEVEL 2—MONDAY, JULY 3, 2141 2:57 P.M.

I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, my ear pressed to the thin material. I stayed there, not moving, until I heard Pat walk back down the hall. She meant well. She always did. At least this time she didn’t try to tell me I wasn’t ready, that I should take more time. I constantly wavered between thinking she was trying to control my life and that she was a good friend that I didn’t deserve.

There were a lot of people dead because of me. Friends, family. People who meant even more than that to me. They were dead either because of something I had done, or something I had failed to do. I’d felt like this before, certainly not for the same reasons, but shitty enough that I wondered why I even bothered to stick around, breathing the recycled air and eating the limited food supply.

In the past, whenever I was in the dumps, I’d always ended up at Northern Dragon Chinese Cuisine. Kai’s place. In the few years I’d known him, Kai had become like a grandfather to me. Someone who listened, only offered advice when it was asked for, and made me laugh no matter what the circumstances. That had all changed a couple of weeks ago. I’d found out how he knew my mom and dad, how he had been there when they’d been killed. He’d been their friend.

Through all the time I had called him a friend, he had never once told me. Never even hinted at it. At first I was mad, especially after I’d learned he’d run when my parents had been attacked. Then I realized I’d done the same thing to Ian, leaving him in the rubble for ACE—for Jeremy—to find.

After Ian died, Kai left on a mission for the insurgents while also starting a search for Bryson. Some days I missed Kai desperately, on others he was a faint memory in the back of my mind. Today was definitely one of the miss days. He’d been back; knocking on my door, asking if I was okay. I should have answered him, let him in. Instead I just rolled over in bed and ignored him. He could have tried harder.

Pat and I had become friends at the training compound, but things had changed here in the city. When we talked, she would offer advice and cajole me into doing something. Usually something I didn’t really want to do, and I’d cave in, not willing to put up a fight. It was probably what helped her to get through some of her worst times, but it wasn’t what worked for me. I wasn’t sure what did.

I drifted into the bathroom, forgetting I’d used all my water that morning. The empty bucket sat in the tub, waiting to catch a stray drip from the tap. I kept the place as clean as I could, but the dark gray ring around the tub from the room’s previous occupants refused to come off. I tended to prefer showers anyway, but with the lack of water, all I got was the bucket. The mirror over the sink was cracked but still usable, the reflective coating peeling away from the back of the glass.

The water wouldn’t turn on again until after dinner. Everybody would rush to their rooms when they finished eating and wait, their taps already open and maybe an extra bucket available, just in case the flow stayed on longer. It never happened. If we wanted to drink something, we’d have to head down to the kitchen and they’d give us a glass of tepid water or weak tea. Or send us back to our rooms with nothing. The only toilets that worked were on the first floor. Ours had no water, except what we were willing to spare from our buckets. I always tried to save a bit.

The bathroom still held onto the faint smell of vomit—my morning ritual since Ian had died. Maybe it had started before that, I couldn’t really remember. It was difficult to remember anything from before. Some of the good times at boot camp shone through, like when he’d come to visit and we’d take off into the surrounding mountains. We’d bring climbing gear, but almost never used it. Every time those memories surfaced, I pushed them back down, deep inside the locked box in my head, where they couldn’t hurt me anymore.

I missed the mountains and the freedom I’d had there. The greenhouses had given me a small hint of that, but I wasn’t sure when or even if I’d be able to get back there . . .

I stripped down, leaving my blood-encrusted clothes on the floor, and trudged naked to my bed. The sheets were still crumpled into a ball from this morning, the bed-making part of boot camp training disappearing faster than it had come. The sheets matched the walls and the ring on the tub. Gray on top of gray on top of more gray. I figured they must have been white at one point in their lives, but too many bodies and too many washings had taken that away. I pulled a couple of bobby pins from my hair and put them on the small bedside table.

Lying down, I untangled the sheets and pulled them up to my neck, shivering in the sudden chill, waiting for them to warm up. The mattress was soft. Maybe too soft, but at least it wasn’t as lumpy as the compound ones. I sunk in and closed my eyes, resting my hands on my belly. The day’s events rolled through my mind and I started tearing them apart. Security would be high after what we did today. We wouldn’t be able to get another food truck until SoCal relaxed, which could be never.

There had been three of us on the original recon, each person strolling by the loading dock at different times and from different angles. I don’t know if the other two had seen the addition of the passenger, or the guns. We hadn’t been allowed to communicate with each other, only the hijack team. The woman touching me to get me back on track was a breach of mission protocol. If no one else saw it, she would be okay. If they had, she would probably be pulled from future missions for a short while. I didn’t even know if I was the only one to follow the truck when it drove away. We really weren’t much of a team.

I’d told the hijack group about the extra man and the possibility of guns. At least they’d been ready for that, or they were supposed to have been. Doubling back to watch everything go down had been my idea—I expected to be yelled at for that. In the end, everything had gone wrong. Three, maybe four dead. Two of ours and two of theirs. A backup team so far away they were useless.

The man I’d yanked from the truck had been alive, though I didn’t know if he’d stayed that way. I’d have to remember to ask about him. Pat might know, especially if she had been in charge of this op. I don’t think she was, though. She would have run a tighter operation, and chances were no one would have died. I didn’t really know what she did here.

The picture of the two kids swam into my tired brain. I still had it in my jacket pocket. My guess was they were the driver’s. Why else would the picture be there? I tried to recall his face, tried to remember how old he was, but once I left my bike, it was all a blur. I hoped he made it, for their sake.

Even though I hadn’t pulled the trigger that killed those men, I felt responsible. I told myself this was war. The soldiers on all sides were pawns in the game created by their corporate masters. I was the same, just a pawn. We’d picked or been drafted onto our sides, forced to play by their rules.

The true fault really lay with them. The corporations. Even the insurgent leaders. They were all alike, really. Right now, today, the insurgents were where I wanted—where I needed—to be. The corporations were using and killing the people for their own purposes, and I couldn’t stand by and let that happen.

Ian wouldn’t have been able to either.

LOS ANGELES LEVEL 2—MONDAY, JULY 3, 2141 2:59 P.M.

Janice Robertson stood in the shadowed alley, hiding behind the heaps of garbage that hadn’t been picked up for weeks. She’d almost gotten used to the overpowering smell that felt strong enough to burn holes into her lungs. She’d been here long enough to get a sore throat from it already.

The Ambient overhead had been flickering for days and had finally gone out this morning. Janice didn’t care either way, except for the mild headaches she always got from being under the faltering light for so long.

The building across the street from her was a grime-covered dark gray. The thin vertical windows, each one with black stains under it from decades of neglect, gave it a shrouded, secure look. It was a mirror of the buildings to either side of it, and pretty much the rest of the block. The place gave her the creeps.

Despite the similarities, this building was different. Not in its structure or shape, but in the people that went in and out of it. Groups left looking as though they had a purpose or a goal, while most people in the lower levels appeared lost. This wasn’t just another tenement on Level 2.

What had attracted Janice here in the first place was simple.

Kris.

Janice had heard about the food lines being set up throughout the lower levels of San Angeles. The closest one for her was in Level 2 Chinatown. They didn’t ask questions, and they didn’t care where you came from. If you were hungry, they would feed you. That was where she had first seen Kris.

The time between her failed attempt to kill Kris two weeks ago and seeing her at the Chinatown kitchen hadn’t been good. Food had been scarce, to the point where she’d fought to eat out of garbage cans. She’d even robbed people on Level 5, looking for anything she could trade for food. She had considered getting caught in SoCal’s draft sweeps just so she could get a meal and a bed to sleep in. She didn’t know what stopped her from doing exactly that. She had nothing against killing for a living. It’s what she had done for Jeremy for the last few years.

She’d succeeded in every mission he’d given her except one.

Kris was the reason she was here instead of on Level 6. Monitoring Kris at the ACE training camp would have finally given her enough money to live more than comfortably up there. She could have quit doing missions. She’d already picked out a nice apartment. It was on the top floor, but that didn’t matter as much up there. Now she was stuck down here with no way to get past security, no way to get to the money she had saved. She was fucked.

ACE and Jeremy were gone. Both destroyed by Kris. Janice had found that out early enough. So there was no way to get more work, more money. Getting rid of Kris wasn’t an ACE job anymore; it wasn’t a Jeremy job anymore. It had become personal.

She’d been following Kris since the sighting in the food lines, mapping her movements and habits. Waiting for the right time.

Kris had ridden her motorcycle into the inter-level parking only moments before. Janice continued to hide behind the garbage, watching the dark windows for any sign of new activity. A light flipped on in one of the thin strips. The timing was late, but it was the first one on. The good thing was it was a window Janice had picked as Kris’s, and on the fourth floor. The only other possibility was a room on the second floor, and Kris was too low-level a person to get a premium space like that.

Janice stayed in the shadows for another ten minutes before heading off to Chinatown. She crept deeper in the alley, sliding along the edge of the building, staying between the piles of moldy trash and the fibercrete until she was sure she was out of sight from the main strip. She moved a filthy mattress leaning against the wall to reveal a beat up old motorcycle. She had acquired it only a few days ago, knowing she would need something to follow Kris. Trying to chase a bike on foot was stupid with a capital S. The person who used to own it wouldn’t need it anymore. They’d been beaten and robbed for whatever they had before she’d gotten there. She watched him die after she’d taken out two of his attackers. She let the third one get away, dragging a broken ankle. He’d never walk the same again.

She got on the machine and rode the side streets toward Chinatown.

Whatever was in the building she’d been watching, it couldn’t have been too big. Janice had easily spotted a couple of guards, but nothing else. A corporation or ACE would have had lookouts in the alley and on the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. These guys had essentially nothing: a lone patrol on the roof that kept a predictable schedule. Amateurs.

Janice parked in a dark corner and walked into the glare of Chinatown. The neon was a constant, no matter what was going on. She pushed past the slow walkers, wanting to be near the front of the food line. It was always good to get into the lines early. The chance of getting more solids in the soup was higher. There weren’t many people yet so she could pick her own line. That meant she could flirt with Jason again. Flirting got her more food.

KADOKAWA SAT CITY 2—MONDAY, JULY 3, 2141 3:00 P.M.

Andrew Ito strode into his war room with a confidence he didn’t feel. It wouldn’t do to show the men what he thought about the war Kadokawa had entered. He had been assigned to his role only a few short weeks ago.

His predecessor had been “let go” in a most unceremonious manner. He had been stripped of his rank and dishonorably discharged. Andrew didn’t want to make the same mistake. He didn’t want to end his career the same way. Yet what he was being asked to do wasn’t what he had signed up for. It wasn’t the Kadokawa way.

The loss of the quantum scientist had been a huge blow to Kadokawa. Even though they still had his data and his team, no progress was being made. They remained at a deadlock where, no matter what they did, the outcome on living brain tissue was the same. Whoever they sent through a quantum jump would end up dead.

He knew they had a working jump drive, as long as they didn’t transport anything they wanted alive on the other side. That had been proven by Meridian before Kadokawa’s hostile takeover. So, instead of trying to fix the jump drive, he switched the team to work on shielding technology. If he could protect the passengers during a jump, it would be a big win to the corporation.

His changes to the Sat City’s security had turned the orbiting station into an operational military base. It hadn’t taken much. Most of the nonessential personal had been shipped off-site and replaced with military staff, though a few family members had stayed behind. He was working to get them off the satellite as soon as possible. Anyone associated with the jump drive was monitored and escorted by two armed soldiers whenever they weren’t in the lab.

At least Andrew had inherited a worthy Sat City. Before Meridian’s demise, they had spent huge sums of money on building a larger fleet and adding tremendous amounts of shielding to the city itself. Shielding they hadn’t had to use since he’d been here. His teams had tried to pin the single vessel attack on SoCal, but no proof had been found.

Acquiring Meridian and its assets had immediately brought Kadokawa into the war as an aggressor. A massive leap from their usual role as protectors and humanitarians. Since he had taken over, things had escalated from occasional skirmishes with SoCal to prolonged attacks. None of them affecting the city.

Yet.

Lines had been drawn in the proverbial sand and all-out war was only days away. SoCal had attacked Kadokawa’s mines on Mars, and Kadokawa had responded in kind. It would take years to bring the mines back up to capacity. But the damage to Kadokawa’s reputation could take decades to repair.

Every schoolchild was taught what happened in the last war they’d fought. It had led to the 1947 constitution, in which Japan renounced war as a tool. It was that constitution that had helped form the Japanese military that Andrew had joined. One that was known for its humanitarian goals, for its willingness and ability to help others, no matter what the issue.

Their attack on Meridian had changed all that.

IBC had remained strangely silent. Early on they’d sided with SoCal, going so far as to have the president of the United States stand beside SoCal and declare his dismay at the attacks on the San Angeles water stations. Since the president was owned by IBC, that was a clear signal as to whose side they were on, but they had made no move after that.

Someone in Operations had finally noticed his presence and announced him.

“Kaishō-ho in the room.”

The men and women not involved in any immediate tasks stood and saluted.

“At ease,” Andrew said. “Kaisa Mori, what is our current status?”

“We remain at full alert, Kaishō-ho. SoCal is maintaining the same number of spacecraft at the front line. They continue to observe us from a distance, but do not dare approach.”

“Have we monitored any quantum jumps?”

“None, sir. All vessels portray standard characteristics.”

“Good. Expand our perimeter by another thousand kilometers. Our leaders have asked us to show these gaijin that we only tolerate them. Barely.” Andrew did his best to hide the revulsion he felt at repeating the order, the choice of words used.

The captain bowed. “Yes, Kaishō-ho.”

Andrew watched a screen as the orders were carried out. Expanding the Sat City’s borders was completely unnecessary, but he’d ordered it for two reasons. The first and most obvious was to keep poking at SoCal. He’d been ordered to keep them concentrating on what happened here. The more they focused on his station and not on the troops heading out to reinforce the Martian mines, the better the potential outcome. The second reason was to test his captain. He was new at his position and Andrew wanted to find out what kind of soldier he was.

The existing ships expanded their circle, pushing the SoCal forces farther away. When new Kadokawa ships appeared on the display, sent from the Sat City to fill the holes created by the expanding sphere, he allowed himself a tight smile. Kaisa Mori knew how to do his job.

Andrew stayed in the room for a few more minutes, observing how Mori handled his team. He didn’t need to be there. Meridian had installed surveillance in every corner so that he could watch from his office, but experience had taught him that the people under him reacted differently when he was in Operations than when he was out. Frankly, he was surprised his predecessor hadn’t removed the cameras.

When he was away, Kaisa Mori ran a more casual room. Talking and moving around was limited, but the people at their stations were relaxed. They still responded to orders quickly. Andrew needed to know if they would react even better under pressure, and with the standoff between the two forces, the only pressure he could provide was his presence.

He turned back to the exit, and as the door opened for him, he sensed the atmosphere in the room change.

This city was ready for war, and his confidence in Kaisa Mori had gone up a notch.

Now it was time to check up on the new shielding for the quantum drive.

LOS ANGELES LEVEL 6—MONDAY, JULY 3, 2141 4:02 P.M.

Kai breathed a sigh of relief. He was finally getting somewhere. All it took was to push Kris from his thoughts for half a day so he could concentrate on the task at hand. He felt guilty as hell about it.

Still, it had worked. Doc Searls had finally agreed to help them. He was a great first acquisition. The number of people he had seen in his role as one of ACE’s doctors would be a boon to the insurgents. A decade ago, they would not have needed him. Kai’s ACE contacts would have been better. But years away from the organization had lowered his value in the area.

Getting Doc Searls still felt like a hollow victory.

Leaving Kris behind was one of the hardest things he had ever done, and he couldn’t get the thought out of his head that it was probably the stupidest. She was still in shock and in pain from the failed attempt to get Miller. She probably believed it was all her fault as well. It was easy to forget how young she was sometimes. How she did not have the life experiences to enable her to cope with the kind of pain she was dealing with. Then again, maybe age did not matter.

He should have stayed, no matter what she had said. Even though she did not know it, what she really needed was a friend, not someone who would abandon her when times got tough.

You would figure someone as old as he was would know that.

Now that the first stage of his job was done, he could go back. This time he would not leave until he knew she was ready to deal with the loss.

At least she still had Pat. He sighed again. Kris and Pat had become close during their time together at the ACE training compound, but he was not sure it would be enough. What Kris needed was a shoulder, a helping hand. He saw Pat as more of a take-command type of person. She would probably try to get Kris to talk to a counselor or therapist, try to tell her how to move on. Get past it all.

That was all fine, but it was not what Kris needed. It was not how she dealt with pain and loss and suffering. There would be plenty of time for that later, after she had come to terms with what had happened. She needed time.

Unfortunately, time was a luxury they didn’t have. The war was picking up speed. Soon it would reach its tipping point. Other corporations would join in. Sides would be chosen, alliances made and destroyed.

They would be lucky if anyone made it through this time.

He downloaded a newspaper onto his pad and found a place to sit. It was a small corner park with real grass and two trees. He could hear birds singing, probably piped in and played in a loop.

Newspapers, hell, news media of any kind, weren’t allowed below Level 6. It was SoCal’s way of keeping its citizens in the dark, under control. Even broadcasts were cut off, both comm units and vid screens. The best he could do was look for important articles, memorize them, and pass them on. Taking pictures was out of the question. SoCal had started checking comm units and pads a few days back. It was still a random check, but when the whispers had started moving back through the line he had deleted them all.

The first article he read talked about the state of the rest of the country. The continent-wide drought continued, despite what the experts had predicted. On top of that, massive windstorms across the Dakotas and Minnesota all the way down to Texas had devastated entire crops. Food supplies were going to be a lot thinner, and the prices would skyrocket. No one above Level 5 would even notice, but everyone else would.

Water shortages continued. SoCal had tried to buy more from the east coast, but they refused. Everyone was feeling the pinch in the middle of summer, but no one as bad as San Angeles. The insurgents destroying the pumping stations had hurt them, not that you could tell if you were on Levels 6 or 7. Repairing the damn things was taking too long. SoCal would rather put time and effort into a war than into their own city. Their own people.

So far the war seemed to have stayed between SoCal and Kadokawa. There had been some small fights around the Sat cities. According to the paper, they had all been started by Kadokawa. He had never seen them as the aggressor, but then he had never expected them to take over Meridian.

The last article he read mentioned the fighting on Mars. Again, it had been started by Kadokawa. They had tried to take over SoCal’s mines and failed. Casualty counts on the Kadokawa side were high.

It was all bullshit. All propaganda. When you controlled the news and what was allowed into the city, you controlled the population. He couldn’t decide what was worse, the total blackout of the lower levels or the lies up here.

He erased the paper from his pad and began the long walk to Level 2.

LOS ANGELES LEVEL 2—MONDAY, JULY 3, 2141 5:35 P.M.

I lay in bed until dinnertime, not wanting to move or see people, wishing I could just stay here forever. The effort to remain pleasant would have taken too much out of me. I may have dozed off for a while, but it didn’t feel like it. Exhaustion pulled at my bones, making it tough to find the energy to crawl out of bed. I knew I shouldn’t feel this way. I hadn’t done anything that would make me this tired. I sighed and kicked the sheets off, forcing myself to get up and take the three steps to my small dresser. In the drawers were a couple of shirts and my last pair of clean pants. At least I had extra underwear. With water at a premium, the insurgents had set up a laundry service. More clothes in less water was their idea. I should be getting some washed clothes back tomorrow or the next day. I was pretty sure if I asked loud enough, I could get extra pants. Especially since I had saved their hijacking plan for them. I got dressed and put the bobby pins back in my hair, buried deep where they couldn’t be seen.

I stood by my door listening to the footsteps and the sound of people chattering just outside as they walked to the dining hall. There was laughter and the occasional shout. Life as it should be, considering the circumstances. I dragged myself upright and straightened my shirt. All I had to do was imitate what other people were doing long enough to make it through dinner. I had to try, or Pat would end up pounding on my door wondering why I hadn’t kept my promise. I didn’t want to go, didn’t want to lose it in front of everyone, to lash out at the first thing that hurt me, or worse, see or hear something that reminded me of Ian and break down. That wouldn’t be good for anyone.

Missions like the hijacking were easy. I could do my job and not have to interact with people.

When the noises in the hall subsided, I opened the door and merged with the few remaining stragglers. I stared at the feet of the person ahead of me as I walked, attempting to avoid conversation or the inevitable look of sympathy or “how are you doing?” They meant well, but they weren’t helping.

Everyone seemed to know me. Or know of me. I was the girl that left her team behind to rescue her boyfriend. I was the one that got him killed.

The stairwell was still packed with bodies, and the lack of water created a certain ripeness in the air that filled the enclosed space. I tried to step off to the side, to let the people behind me get through first. Then I could wait until the mass was thinner before I got into the dining hall. I fought the urge to go back to my room.

A hand grabbed my elbow, stopping me from getting out of line.

“Hi, I’m Selma. I was with you on the recon today.”

I didn’t recognize her.

“You were a little lost out there. I hope you didn’t mind me getting your attention. I know it wasn’t protocol, but we really needed your eyes. Robert and I both missed the guns you reported. You helped save lives.”

“We lost two of ours. Their driver was alive when I pulled him from the truck.”

“Yeah. I heard we got him to a walk-in clinic. They shipped him off to a hospital for surgery. He should make a full recovery.” Selma shrugged. “I know we’re not supposed to care what happens outside our area, but I hate not knowing. Even if we save the life of someone working against us, it makes me feel good, you know?”

For the first time, I looked—really looked—at Selma’s face. She was older than me, but still young. Maybe in her twenties. I thought she was making fun of me, or trying to taunt me into an argument, but I didn’t see anything in her eyes except honesty and relief. I smiled my first genuine smile in weeks. “Yeah, I do.” It felt good to find someone that thought like I did, and my guard came down a notch.

If the insurgents had more people like Selma, especially at the top, things might turn out all right after all. Heck, having more like her in the ranks wouldn’t hurt either.

By the time we reached the bottom of the stairs I knew more about Selma than I knew about most people. She had almost gotten married, but her fiancé had been caught up in one of SoCal’s draft sweeps. She had managed to get away, but just barely. She’d been holding onto his hand the whole time, but when she turned around to pull him along faster, it was someone else—an older woman. The woman had stopped Selma from running back into the crowd, stopped Selma from being drafted along with him.

That’s when she had joined the insurgents. Her goal was to get close enough to SoCal to find her fiancé and get him out. I wished her well, knowing it would never happen. Chances were he was long gone, either in training or already deployed somewhere. If she was lucky, he’d make it and come home to her after the war.

“You know they have quotas to fill?” she asked.

“Quotas?”

“Yeah, the SoCal soldiers. I heard if they get their quota, the rest of the people are let go. If they miss, the soldiers are given an extra shift.”

That was news to me. I’d thought they just grabbed as many as they could. It sounded like a hopeful wish, something for people to hold on to if they were caught.

When we entered the dining hall I stopped, searching for Pat and the seat she had offered to save me. Selma misinterpreted my hesitation.

“Come on, you can sit with us. I’ll introduce you to Robert.”

“No, I . . . I promised a friend I’d join her.” I found Pat and pointed her out.

Selma’s eyes went wide, and it was as though her face melted.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh. You’re that Kris. I . . . I’m sorry for rambling on like that. I . . . I’m so sorry for your loss.”

The will to stand was sucked out of me. For the first time since Ian had died, I’d lowered my defenses and Selma hit me with a hammer. My knees buckled and tears threatened to fall again. For a few moments, Ian had touched me and then been yanked away.

Selma stepped closer, placing a shoulder under my arm before I fell. The room blurred. I struggled to breathe as grief rolled over and through me. I felt myself maneuvered out of the way. A wail built in my chest and I clamped my lips tight, forcing it back down.

Not here. Not now.

My hands shook so badly that Selma grabbed them, wanting to hold them still. She stuttered out a few words, soft, quiet. I didn’t hear them.

Demons thundered through my head, grabbing at memories of Ian—our first kiss, the lingering touch of his fingers on my skin—and shredded them before tossing them in shattered heaps back where they had found them. At some point, I felt the presence of Pat.

“Let’s get her out of here,” Pat said.

She put her arm around my waist and walked me to the exit. Selma trailed behind, not quite sure what to do. People stepped out of our way, staring uncomfortably at the floor as we passed, as though I was diseased.

“What happened?” Pat asked.

“I’m not sure,” Selma said. “We were talking when I realized who she was. Then she started collapsing. I don’t know. I must have triggered something. She was fine. I’m so sorry.”

“Okay. Go get your supper. I’ll take care of her. Talk to the cook and have Kris’s meal brought up to her room. Please.”

Pat didn’t wait for a response. Selma faded away as Pat kept walking, supporting me back to the stairs. She didn’t say a word.

I didn’t have the strength to hold out any longer. The stairwell echoed with the sounds of my pain.

Pat brought me to my room, staying until the food came. I played with it more than I ate, pushing chunks of potatoes and carrots around until she thought enough had made it down my throat. She didn’t try to talk to me, didn’t try to convince me to get help. She just stayed with me, filling my bucket when the water was turned back on. Mostly we sat. At times it was an uncomfortable silence, and I almost wished she would go back to trying to help me.

She turned to face me before leaving, examining my face as though she could see through to my soul. “How long have you been pregnant?”

Cold fear clutched my heart, and I stuttered out a denial that even I wouldn’t have believed. It felt like she had slapped me in the face. Thankfully, she didn’t press the issue.

I locked the door behind her when she left and stumbled to bed, my feet dragging across the worn floor. I crawled under the covers without taking my clothes off.

SOCAL SAT CITY 2—MONDAY, JULY 3, 2141 2:45 P.M.

The room was small and quiet, except for the constant background hum of the satellite. The guards had followed Ms. Peters down a hallway to an elevator, gripping Bryson’s arms until their knuckles turned white. He would have bruises in the shape of their fingers. The elevator had barely held the four of them. By the look of the narrow hall the doors had opened on, its walls covered in conduits and junction boxes and ventilation pipes, this was a place no one went. Not willingly. Even the air tasted stale and metallic.

Ms. Peters and the guards stood and watched as Bryson changed into dry pants and underwear from a shelf. He wasn’t allowed any modesty. The shelf contained nine more pairs, plus an equal number of shirts. All in his size. He tried desperately not to dwell on the implications of that, but failed miserably. The cricket bat leaned against the far wall, beside a desk. Its presence chased away any embarrassment he might have felt changing in front of everyone. What was the point when they could beat him whenever they wanted?

When he was done, Ms. Peters turned to the guards. “Wait outside.”

They left, leaving the bat behind, as she pointed to a folding chair leaning against the wall. For a brief moment, he had the crazy idea of grabbing the bat and smashing his way out. But if he did, what then? He had nowhere to go.

“Please, get the chair. Put it there, and sit.”

Bryson almost ran as she lowered herself into a chair. She waited until he had done as she had asked, his hands shaking, the chair slipping in his grasp, memories of the last time he’d been questioned by her washing through his mind. Images of the guard and the cricket bat made his vision blur.

“As I told you earlier,” Ms. Peters said, “the chip is scrambled. We will find the key eventually, but I thought I would give you a chance to speed up the process.”

“You have the encryption key I used. I didn’t do anything—” The words came out fast and jumbled.

“You know where lying to me will get you, don’t you?”

“I’m not—I—” Bryson’s gaze flicked over to the bat and then studiously returned to Ms. Peters’ face. He didn’t want to think about that.

“What is the key, Mr. Searls?”

He looked straight at her, trying to appear as open and honest as he could. “I gave you everything.”

Ms. Peters rose and perched lightly on the edge of the desk. She leaned in closer to him. He pushed himself deeper in his chair, his entire body suddenly hot and sweaty in the temperature-controlled air.

The chair folded in on itself and he lay sprawled on the floor, unable to inhale.

Ms. Peters stood over him as he struggled to regain control, passively watching his face.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Please, I’m telling you the truth,” he cried.

She sat back in her chair and watched as Bryson picked himself up. Once he was seated again, a guard came in, placing a box in front of her before standing behind him.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked.

Bryson shook his head.

Ms. Peters open the box, revealing a tiny glass bottle and a syringe. Hands clamped onto his shoulders, holding him in his chair.

“This will help us get the truth out of you. There’s no need to worry, the effects aren’t permanent and only last a short while. Plenty of time to get what we want.”

“Truth serum?” Bryson blurted out the words.

“No!” Ms. Peters laughed. “I would have thought someone as intelligent as you would know there’s no such thing. This simply helps remove any inhibitions you have. You’ll be fully cognizant of what is happening. You’ll be able to understand any other inducements we may choose to use.” She looked at the bat. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

The guard moved an arm around Bryson’s neck while the other arm pushed down on his head. His world faded to gray and he felt a sharp prick on his arm before the guard let go.

She questioned him for another half hour before returning to her seat.

“You appear to be telling the truth, Mr. Searls.”

He flinched as she grabbed the bat and walked past him, banging on the door.

“Bring him back to his work area.”

The guards were as gentle taking him to his lab as they were in getting him to the room. Bryson didn’t relax until he stepped through the airlock. All the tension was replaced with a self-loathing and hatred so intense it threatened to consume him. One day, he would take back what that woman had stolen from him. He didn’t know how, and he didn’t know when, but it would happen. Or he would die trying.