After my second day of mech training, I’m wound up tighter than the springs in one of Mom’s antique clocks. Mech gear is fascinating, but I don’t like what it means. I scratch my head for any alternative, and come back to starting a restaurant.
I need to be alone to think, but that’s not to be.
Little Brandy waits for me at the guardhouse. “It’s a lot to take in,” she says.
Nodding, I wave to a petite guard who stands at attention.
“Want to grab a sandwich or something?” Brandy asks.
“I have to get to work,” I lie. I’m sure Voss won’t miss me. Besides, I want Brooks to take Janine, which means I won’t have a partner.
Brandy follows me out toward the cycles. “I don’t mean to be a pest, but I hear there’s a lot of teaming up. I want to team with you.”
I knew it. I look at my cute little companion. She’s hardly what I’d recruit for mech material. She’s been quiet during training and struggles with the exercises yet keeps up with me when we run. Still, I could use an ally with Dara gathering her posse. “That’s great, but right now I have to go to work.”
“You need to eat.”
“That’s a great idea.” Dara joins us and places her hand on my shoulder.
We’re friends now, Dr. Jekyll?
“Why don’t we head out to the plantation and see what we can rustle up?”
I remove Dara’s hand and move toward the rack of silver electric cycles, under the watchful eye of the petite guard. Maybe I shouldn’t underestimate little Brandy.
While I want to be alone, I’m hungry. And it would be good to get to know Brandy, if I can get her away from the amazon.
“I have to work downtown,” I say. “I’ll grab something there.”
With one arm around Brandy and the other around me, Dara pushes us toward the cycles. “Then downtown it is.” She lowers her voice and adds: “Though our food’s better.”
I pull away. “Don’t touch.”
“Okay!” Dara holds up her hands, all defensive. “Just trying that teamwork thing Sam mentioned. Go have one of your cardboard burgers.”
When I reach my cycle, Brandy joins me. She seems to want my protection from the amazon. Sorry to disappoint.
My taste-buds crave flavor, so I turn to Dara. “I don’t suppose you know a place downtown with real food.”
Dara grins and lowers her voice. “I might.”
“What if we start our own restaurant with something between Tenn-tucky Bistro blah and your party food? A little variety and atmosphere. I’m certain we’d be popular.”
“And draw the harmony police.”
“I thought you were fearless.”
Dara wags her finger at me. “You’re on. I know where we can do some research.” She gets on her cycle and heads toward town.
Margarite hurries to catch up. Brandy hesitates, but when I pull out, she joins me. When we reach downtown, we pass clusters of shops and restaurants near bus stops. Crowds of women mill about in Union-approved blah dresses, skorts, and pants intended to support the image of harmony.
For the first time, the restaurant idea becomes real. Dara knows girls who can spice up the food. She might have ways around the harmony police. It’s my first bit of hope since I got arrested. I could get Janine out of security and make us a life close to Mom.
* * *
Dara pulls up in front of a storefront with traditional pre-war charm and a subdued red sign announcing Mario’s. I like it already. After we park, Dara leads the way inside, always in charge.
The interior teems with curves and arches, subtle touches that make it distinct from Tenn-tucky Bistro. Tuscan pictures decorate the walls. Bad news: only four customers, seated in the front. Dara takes a booth in the back, and with Margarite faces the entrance. Brandy and I face the back exit, a possible escape route.
“We don’t know much about the business, so let’s observe,” Dara says. There she goes, giving orders.
“We need a cook,” I say, “someone who can add zest to bring people in.”
“I can cook,” Brandy says, trying to be helpful. Her sweet auburn hair glimmers in subdued lighting. “But it won’t be easy.”
I nod. The Union bans salt, MSG, trans-fats, caffeine, sugar, and most spices.
“Mom says they used to put salt, pepper and sugar on each table,” Brandy goes on. “Not anymore, and don’t ask the waitress.”
A waitress with wrinkled olive skin appears. She passes out laminated menus that look like they’ve been used for decades, with items we could get at Union Burgers & Subs. That’s a letdown.
Dara hands back her menu. “I’ll take a rare hamburger well-seasoned, fries, and a bustle-berry malt. Please.” The last comes as an afterthought when the waitress stares.
Instead of arguing that Dara can’t have what she ordered, the waitress turns to Margarite. She orders the same, as does Brandy. Curious, I make it unanimous.
After the waitress leaves, I whisper, “What was that all about? It’s not on the menu.”
“Mario’s won’t reject your order. Can’t afford to, with Union Burgers across the street. This is what we have to prepare for.”
While the décor has subtle architectural niceties, it doesn’t have anything to offend Union harmony restrictions except perhaps pictures of the old country. I doubt the owner’s been there, since travel has been restricted since before I was born. “We can do this. We’ll need decorations that push the limits but don’t cross harmony codes.”
“The Italian theme works,” Brandy says.
“Do any of us look Italian?” Dara asks.
I was going to suggest Dara did, but it’s best not to stir that pot. “Don’t be so negative. We have a cook and a theme.”
“You’re serious?” Dara asks.
“Why not?”
The droopy-eyed waitress brings four stoneware plates with chunky fries and pinkish-brown burgers on thick, buttery buns. This definitely looks like the beef the Union bans.
Dara digs in. I stuff a rectangular fry into my mouth. The rich flavor delights with tastes I don’t recognize. A tad salty and sweet, it doesn’t taste greasy.
“Is this really a fry?” I ask.
“Tastes like one,” Dara says.
“When have you had fries?”
“One of my foster moms liked to spice things up. Try the burger.”
When I do, the buttery taste lingers. I can’t decide whether I’m pleased by defying stupid Federal Union laws or tasting the food itself. The malt has a sweet berry flavor. I can’t help smiling. “This is what I have in mind. Isn’t it illegal?”
“Keep it down.” Brandy sinks in her seat. “We don’t need trouble.”
Dara checks her wrist-com. “Maybe that is what we need. I got hold of Sam’s miracle meds. I hear they’re like steroids, only they don’t put hair on your chest, thank God.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
Dara places a thin brown bottle of pills on the table. “Special prescription for warriors. Try these. You’ll be amazed how great you’ll feel.”
“Did you take these today?”
“This isn’t basketball, dearie.” Dara places her hand on mine: too friendly.
I pull away and put on my stony face. I don’t want another fight.
“In mechs, we play for keeps.” Dara pops a pill and downs it with malt. Then she offers pills to the others.
Thin-faced Margarite follows Dara’s example. Brandy takes a pill and examines it as if she can tell anything by looking. I push the bottle of pills toward Dara. I’m not ingesting more unknown junk.
Dara pushes the small bottle toward me. “Take it. I have more. It enhances our performance, gives us an edge in the tournament, the arena, and as warriors.”
I study the unlabeled bottle that holds some two dozen pills. If these work and Dara gets stronger, I won’t stand a chance. I stuff the bottle into an inside pocket in my skorts and look to see if anyone noticed.
Two older cops I don’t recognize barge in with two plain-clothed, pinched-faced women. The heavier cop rushes into the kitchen, along with the plain-clothes. They must be ISP, Illegal Substance Police.
“Did you call this in?” I whisper.
Dara grins. “Doing research on how quickly they respond and how they operate.”
I put down my burger. “Let’s go.”
“Relax,” Dara says.
One of the plain-clothes, an officious young prig with dyed-blonde hair, returns and grabs my plate. “We need this for evidence.”
I glare at Dara. Brandy squeezes my hand like Janine does, but she isn’t Janine. I pull away.
“All customers clear out,” the priggish blonde says. “This establishment is closed for violating food laws.”
When I start to get up, Dara grabs my arm. “Wait.”
I drop back into my seat. After I hear the few other customers leave, the officious food enforcer returns to our table. “I said clear out.”
“Not until you tell me what I’ve eaten,” Dara says. “I trust the Union to make sure food is proper. Now you tell me it’s not.” Dara crosses her arms, tightening her dark eyes and pouty mouth.
The blonde looks flustered. She hasn’t run into an obstacle like Dara before. “Very well. Stay seated while we inspect this.”
When she heads back into the kitchen, the thin cop stands by the front door eyeing us. Dara takes another bite.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.
“Here, want some of mine?” She pushes her plate my way.
“I need to get to work.”
Dara leans forward. “You’re either serious about your restaurant or you’re not.”
“I am.”
“Then let’s see what they come back with. It took them five minutes to respond, not enough time to purge the place even if we have warning. They’ll do preliminary tests on site. If it’s obvious, they’ve got you. They’ll do more thorough tests offsite.”
To avoid her touching again, I lean back. “You’ve given this some thought?”
“Lots of girls have. Pulling it off is another matter. All it takes is one disgruntled customer.”
Or a bitchy amazon trying to prove something.
The blonde returns, her eyes gray and face sagging. “The burger is turkey and soy. The potatoes are baked, not fried, though they were soaked in butter. We’ll do more tests. The malt has too much sugar, but no caffeine or other illegal additives. You should be fine.”
“But my friend never got her meal,” Dara says.
“Which you won’t pay for, since the restaurant is closing. Now go.”
The blonde directs the cops to remove us. Dara looks ready to challenge them just because she can. Margarite takes her by the hand and leads her out.
Damn you, Dara. Mario’s hasn’t done anything wrong. They did what I want to do and you’ve shut them down. Maybe they’ll reopen, but the Union doesn’t like any hint of violating food laws. That smacks of rebellion. Once again, enforcement eliminates competition to official restaurant chains.
“Now we know what we’re up against,” Dara says. “You still want to do this?”
I nod and walk my cycle to the street so I can head for the police station six blocks away. The others tag along. I don’t mind Brandy, but I’m not sure what Dara’s up to. One moment she wants to fight. The next, she’s my buddy, ready to help start my restaurant.
When I stop at the first light, a wisp of a boy darts into the shadows. Are you from Michael’s School?
Dara parks her cycle.
“Leave him,” I say. “I’m late for work.”
Dara tugs me off my cycle. “Sweetie, you want to be a mech, you can’t be afraid of guys.”
I pull free. “I’m not. I’m–”
“Margarite, Brandy, close off his retreat. Let’s show Sam some teamwork.”
“Let’s call it in,” I say as Brandy and Margarite run to the other end of the alley. I’m torn. I’ll have to betray either what I know to be right or my oath as a cop intern.
“Annabelle, I’m really trying here, “Dara says. “Sam wants us to work out our differences. I’ve humored your restaurant idea. Humor me on this.” She pats my cheek.
When I hesitate, Dara grabs my wrist in an iron grip and pulls me down the alley toward where the boy disappeared. I pull free, but I follow. We meet up with the others by Dumpsters behind Mario’s.
No more than 14, a slender boy with a dirt-smudged face and green student collar flees into the arms of Margarite and Brandy. His dirty hands clutch one of the tasty turkey burgers I tried before the blonde food-enforcer took it. He bites into it and cowers like a frightened mouse. He shrinks into his oversized jeans and jersey.
“What’s your name, boy?” I ask. “Where do you belong?”
Dara grabs the boy by his green metallic collar and lifts him off the ground. “We don’t need a name to tell this critter doesn’t belong here.”
The choking boy drops his sandwich. His thin arms and legs flail. He makes no attempt to fight.
With my sister recruits watching, I can’t free the boy, and I fear what Dara will do to him. I alert my station from my wrist-com and turn to Dara. “Leave him. Patrols are on their way.”
“Are you defending this boy?”
“No, but this isn’t necessary.” The boy’s sad eyes tug at me.
Dara turns and slams the boy into the brick wall of Mario’s. “That’s for running and being where you’re not supposed to be. If I had my remote, I’d give you a jolt to remember.”
I pull Dara away from the wall. “Leave him for the cops. Don’t do this.”
Blood spills from the boy’s crooked nose. Tears stream down his gritty cheeks. “Please.”
Dara tosses the boy aside like garbage and grabs me. “I’m trying to work with you. Don’t ever cross me again.” Letting me go, she picks the boy up by the collar.
“Dara, don’t. Mech cops are here.”
Dara sets the boy on the ground and kicks him toward a black-shielded figure sprinting toward us. “He resisted arrest,” Dara says, moving back.
The boy whimpers like Janine when she’s afraid of the dark.
The mech cop picks him up like a twig. “I’ll take him from here. Go about your business.” The mech cop trots off toward city lockup.
I stare at the retreating boy, a scared mouse caught in a trap. You don’t treat humans like this.