Luke had never imagined he’d be so thrilled to hear “Happy Panda” again. The catchy beat was still doing its oh-wa-woah-wa-wa in his head as he loped downstairs. Just hearing Oz’s voice had put a spring in his step, and he took the stairs two or three at a time, eager to see how this day would unfold.
He pushed through the front doors. Their paint was flaking, rubbed thin by the pressure of hundreds of hands daily. Men going out to work, men coming back. Another lick of paint every few years. Another batch of men to fill the foundries and factories, to do the maintenance shifts and cart away the rubbish. Then when they were gone: more men, more paint.
Would today be a first step toward ending all that?
It was icy outside, and Luke turned up the collar of his too-thin jacket and stuffed his hands into his armpits as if trying to hold in his body heat. His jumpsuit was uncomfortably hot inside the shed, but worn outside it had been uncomfortably cold for months, though January was proving the worst. They probably designed the garment carefully for maximum thermal inefficiency in all conditions.
His breath steamed in the frigid air. The only time steam looked clean in Millmoor was when it came out of your own mouth. After a few minutes, he’d adjusted to the temperature sufficiently to lift his head and straighten his back from an instinctive, heat-conserving hunch.
Usually there wasn’t much worth looking at in Millmoor, although he still did Doc Jackson’s exercise of searching for details. But today was different.
Today was party day.
With a six-day workweek, Luke had never been in the streets on a Friday before. It seemed busier than when he was out and about on club business on Sundays.
Just in front of him walked a couple holding hands. The man had draped his jacket around his girl’s shoulders. He must be freezing. The dark hair buzzed short at the back of his head bristled with cold, and his neck had a raw, red look. There was a slapping sound as they walked. Luke identified it as the heel of her boot, which had come loose. That wouldn’t keep out much on a rainy day.
The woman stopped, uncertain, and the man’s arm went around her shoulders. Somewhere up ahead was a hubbub of raised voices and angry shouts. The couple turned aside, taking a different route, but Luke thought he knew what was going on.
His feet had unconsciously carried him to the nearest shop, several streets from the dorm. It looked as if Hilda and Tilda had pulled off the unlimited-credit trick, because there must have been about fifty people gathered round the store.
Metal shutters were pulled down over the frontage and two nervous-looking blokes, not all that older than Luke, stood in front of it. They wore the uniform of Millmoor Security and were holding batons. They kept looking up and down the street as if hoping for backup, which showed no signs of coming.
One of them was trying to ignore an angry man who was shouting and gesticulating. The man’s finger was stabbing at the guard’s face. Kessler would have had you on your back in a second with a snapped wrist and piss-soaked pants for that, but the guard just cringed.
Two lads in their early twenties had scrounged a dustbin lid and a length of metal piping from somewhere and were attempting to prize up the shutters. A group of women were cajoling the other guard to open up. One of them was flirting in a way that wasn’t exactly appealing, but was certainly distracting.
For the first time, Luke properly understood what the ditcher sisters had done. Letting people have free stuff was only a small part of it. At every store across Millmoor, the scene would be much the same. Dozens of guards would be taken up on this policing. And these younger, more inexperienced ones weren’t doing a great job of looking fearsome—which might make people bolder, more willing to risk defiance. If trouble flared up at one location, hopefully Security wouldn’t be able to call in reinforcements, either, thanks to Renie’s busy night with her knife.
All that achieved on the ground, with just a little computer mischief. Luke let out a low whistle. Impressive.
He hurried on, keen to see more of the club’s plans unfold. He’d steer clear of Zone D for now. Would the place be eerily quiet, or would people have chickened out at the last minute and shown up for work? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
But he knew where he could admire one of Jackson’s banners—his sector’s Labor Allocation Bureau. The same sods who’d waved through his solo assignment to Millmoor, despite the requirement that under-eighteens could only do days with a parent or guardian. The same ones, he had learned during his months in the club, who were responsible for many more outrageous decisions.
The banner was half hanging off by the time Luke arrived. The West Sector LAB was a pitted concrete building some six stories high. It wasn’t as tall as the towering accommodation blocks that ringed Millmoor’s outskirts, but it still loomed over the smaller administrative buildings around it. The Doc’s little message was slung across its top floor like a jaunty bandanna.
It had been detached at the top right corner, and two nervous members of Security were dangling a third guy over the edge of the roof. He must have been having even less fun. He was slashing at the fastening on the bottom corner with a blade tied to a broom handle. The banner sagged but the slogan was still clear, so neatly lettered it must have been done by Asif: “UN-EQUAL.”
A small crowd had gathered to watch and a woman near the front was heckling. Her skin seemed somehow too large for her, as if she’d been a big lass before coming to Millmoor and being put on the Slavery Diet. The place had done nothing to shrink her voice, though.
“Shame on yer!” the woman bawled up at the roof. “Policin’ yer own kind. Git a proper job. You was my kids, I’d tan yer hides!”
She spat emphatically on the pavement. Several others in the crowd took up a chant of “Shame! Shame!”
Whether through fright or because he did indeed feel ashamed, the guard being dangled upside down fumbled with his pole and it slipped from his fingers. The group of onlookers scurried back to avoid the blade as it fell, then surged forward to cover it. Luke didn’t see what happened to either pole or knife in the scuffle that followed. But by the time the crowd eased apart again, there was nothing on the ground.
“You wait!” the woman yelled at the roof. “You tell your lords an’ masters we’ll give ’em a Millmoor welcome if they ever come to visit!”
Well.
Luke knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Mancunians were a feisty bunch. But when all you saw, day in, day out, was people looking knackered and hungry, you somehow forgot that.
He grinned. Decided to do a circuit through South Sector to see what else was going on.
Everywhere he turned there was something to catch his eye. He stopped short when he saw a woman standing in a dorm-block doorway with some friends.
She was wearing a dress.
She was nearly old enough to be his mum, and it wasn’t a terribly nice dress. In fact, it looked like it’d been run up from bedsheets. But he hadn’t seen a woman in a dress since coming to Millmoor. Mostly, ladies escaped the jumpsuits, which were for heavy labor. But trousers and tunics were the order of the day, and nonregulation wear was banned. The frock might not be much of a fashion statement, but it was a political statement all right.
One of the woman’s friends noticed him staring, and pointed him out to the others with a laugh. Luke felt himself go bright red and wanted to bolt, but the lady in the dress turned round and saw him. An embarrassed but proud smile lit up her tired face, and she brushed out the creases in the skirt, which was kind of sweet.
He lost track of how far he walked after that. He’d left the areas he knew well some time ago, and was straying into unfamiliar districts. But it must have been long past lunchtime, because a sudden whiff of something delicious made his stomach cramp with hunger.
The smell was coming from a second-floor window at the back of a dorm block. It was one for “small family units,” which meant single parents with few enough kids that the whole family could be housed in one room. “Few enough kids” could apparently be as many as three.
A woman stuck her head out the window, fanning steam, her brown skin glistening.
“Sorry, pet,” she called down when she saw him standing below. “Coupla lil’ chickens flew out the factory yesterday, but we’ve none spare, even for a proper lad like you.”
She gave a deep, throaty laugh and disappeared back inside. Luke didn’t begrudge her refusal, just stood there feasting on the aroma.
Then another face appeared at the window: a girl, maybe early teens, whose frizzy hair was barely contained by two braids. She put her finger to her lips, then held up what looked like a wodge of tissue and tossed it to him. Luke darted to catch it. It was actually toilet paper, but concealed in the middle, like an improbable prize at the end of a game of pass-the-parcel, was a hot sliver of meat speckled with salt and pepper.
Luke stuffed it in his mouth and looked up to thank the girl. But she was staring over his head at something behind him. Then she broke her self-imposed silence.
“Run!”
Startled, Luke looked over his shoulder.
His feet took off before his brain caught up, by which time he’d managed to get a few blocks away. He could still hear the boots behind him, though. They were going surprisingly fast given the man’s size.
But Luke knew what he’d seen when he’d looked back. There was only one person in Millmoor who wore that uniform and was built like that, albeit the massive bull neck had been in silhouette. And Luke knew the voice that had roared his name just as he took to his heels.
Kessler.
Luke had to slow his pace a little. His work in Zone D might have made him stronger, and his illicit roaming around Millmoor had wised him up to the city’s layout. But neither of those things had made him any quicker on his feet.
Kessler wasn’t catching up just yet, though. Could he shake him off?
But the man had plainly known where he was. It would be too much of a coincidence for him to have simply run into Luke way out on the edge of South, in the depths of the family blocks. How had he known?
The chip. The bloody microchip! Luke clawed at his arm as he ran, as if he could scratch the thing out.
What did Kessler’s pursuit of him mean, on this of all days? Think, Luke. Think!
Luke wondered if there was any blood in the middle part of his body at all. It would all be flowing frantically to his legs and his brain. And right now his legs were getting the lion’s share.
Kessler had been looking for him. Which could mean that he hadn’t succeeded in fooling Ryan last night. Or maybe Zone D had been deserted all day, and for want of any better leads they were pulling Luke in for questioning by someone who actually knew how to do it.
Or maybe they knew about the club.
The first two scenarios Luke would just have to handle. But if it was the last one, he had to warn the others. And there was only one way he could think of to do that: find Jackson.
He had to get to the Doc before Kessler caught up with him, then Jackson could get word to the others. Help them keep a low profile, somehow.
He snatched a glance at his watch. The cruddy BB digital display was hard to read, but the sky itself told Luke that the afternoon was wearing on. The rally at the MADhouse had been scheduled for three o’clock. That was where Jackson would be—even if he wasn’t giving any speeches. Hopefully Luke would be able to lose Kessler in the crowd for long enough to find him.
It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all he had.
He ran through the streets as swiftly as he could without pushing himself to exhaustion. His throat and lungs began to burn. He was sucking in air that was too cold, too fast. At least Kessler wouldn’t be finding it any easier. Luke couldn’t hear the man behind him anymore.
He settled into a regular pace, like doing cross-country back at school, and eventually the surroundings became more familiar. Ahead he saw the agglomeration of offices that kept Millmoor functioning: Supply, Sanitation, and the vast Administration block. Off to the right was the huge, blank barracks of Millmoor Security.
The streets were strangely empty, but over the noise of his thumping heart and scraping breath Luke could hear what sounded like a cacophony of many voices.
It must have worked.
The club’s plan must have actually worked. That sounded like hundreds of demonstrators. Maybe more.
As he approached the MADhouse, the streets began to fill with people. At first they were just in small groups and loosely packed knots, but ahead they thickened up into a dense crowd. And beyond that it looked as if they formed a solid wall. There were no guards here at the back of the gathering. They must all be at the front, keeping protesters away from the MADhouse and other key buildings.
Luke hurried forward, first weaving his way between people, then shouldering his way deeper, and finally pushing through.
How the hell was he going to find Jackson?
The crowd spread as far as he could see. It filled the confined area in front of the MADhouse—a meanly proportioned space never intended for public celebrations or display—and flowed into the avenues that led away from it. He revised his estimate of numbers. There must be a few thousand here. It certainly smelled and sounded like that many.
His face was squashed up against jackets and coveralls, hair and skin, as he shoved his way through. He inhaled sweat and the caustic smell of the standard-issue soap. And here and there he smelled something ranker: a whiff of moonshine alcohol, or some workplace stench that never faded no matter how long you stood under the shower.
There was something else, too. Did anger have a smell? Luke thought it might. Something that you released like pheromones. Because the atmosphere was infused with more than words. It was composed of something greater than the catcalls, the derision, the call-and-response from one side of the crowd to the other. He could hear shouts of “UN!” and “EQUAL!,” of “VOTE!” and “YES!” It was more, too, than just the raised, clenched fists and hunched shoulders, the restless press and sway of the crowd.
These weren’t the sort of folk he’d met in the outer districts, being quietly subversive by wearing unapproved clothing or frying up some stolen food. No. These people were like those who’d gathered round the shop that morning and heckled the guards taking down the banner. They were angry. And determined.
He was near the front now. He had seen more than a few faces he recognized from Zone D as he pushed forward. Then for the first time he had a good view of the MADhouse itself. It had had yet another paint job in the night: “UN-EQUAL” sprayed in vivid yellow right across the front.
The building was ringed by guards. These were the older guys: big, tough veterans. The head of Security stood on the small balcony above the building’s stubby portico. He was a lean, hard man by the name of Grierson, who was rumored to be ex–Special Forces. Next to him was the Overbitch. Gotta hand it to the woman, she didn’t look scared, just pissed off as hell.
Next to her was someone else Luke recognized.
Gavar Jardine.
The scumbag who had come to torture Oz. Who’d tried to shoot Jackson. Back for more. The heir of Kyneston stood there in his sinister leather coat, his flat blue eyes bored by the spectacle before him. Luke imagined this man giving Daisy orders, reprimanding her, and his skin crawled.
The Overbitch stepped forward.
“This is your last chance,” she told the crowd. “We know the identity of everyone present.” She held up a small device with a screen, presumably linked to whatever tracked the implanted chips. “Those who begin to disperse immediately will receive only light sanctions: an additional six months. Those who remain will face a heavier penalty.”
There was some muttering at that, a few shouted curses. Luke was jostled as a number of people began to push their way back. But from what he could see, it wasn’t that many. Hundreds still remained.
“As if!” yelled a man’s voice from the middle of the pack. “You gonna slap us all with slavelife? Where’d you put us all?”
The Overbitch actually smiled. The effect wasn’t pleasant. Luke guessed she didn’t do it much.
“We can always find room,” she said.
“Traitor!” came another voice, female this time. It wobbled, as if the speaker couldn’t believe her own daring. “Oppressing your own people. We don’t ask much. Fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work. Not hard to grasp.”
“But contrary to the law,” said the Overseer.
“Rubbish laws!” the woman called back.
“It’s regrettable that you think so,” said the dumpy woman on the balcony. “Now.” She looked at her watch. “Fascinating though this has been, we’ve had quite enough. As you’ve shown yourself unwilling to disperse voluntarily, I can see we’ll have to encourage you.”
“You an’ whose army?” yelled the first man. “Don’t see many of your goons here.”
“Oh,” said the Overseer. “I don’t need an army. You see, there’s such a thing as natural authority in this country.”
She simpered up at the redheaded freak. Luke felt fear grab him by the scruff of the neck and shake him till he trembled.
Everything happened very quickly after that.
There was a stirring in the crowd just in front of Luke. He recognized the woman who’d been heckling at the Labor Allocation Bureau. Next to her, a tall skinny bloke stepped forward with something in his hand—a pole, with a knife on the end. He launched it up at the balcony.
It struck the Overseer—only a glancing blow, by the looks, but there was blood and she screamed murder. Then Grierson strode to the edge of the balcony, lifted his rifle, and fired.
Once: at the man who had thrown the makeshift spear. Again: at the woman by his side.
He must have shot her in the head, because an arc of gore spattered across the people standing behind. Luke’s eyes closed reflexively but he felt something warm splash against his cheek and gagged.
He dabbed at it with his cuff and blinked, then saw Jackson shoving his way toward the two people who’d been hit.
There was screaming now, and panic. The unity of the crowd had ripped apart. Most were trying to turn and flee, but many were surging toward the thin line of guards around the MADhouse entrance.
They could do it, Luke thought. There were enough of them.
“At will!” Grierson yelled. “At will!”
Luke heard more shots go off and more people screaming, but still he and others kept going. This was it, he thought. They’d get no second chances after this.
“No!”
The voice had come from up above, from the balcony, and there was only one person it could belong to. It made the Overseer’s threats and Grierson’s commands seem as inconsequential as a child trying to overrule its parents.
But there was no more time to analyze it. Luke doubled over with the pain that slammed into him, as heavy and terrifying as his workstation hoist. He howled, and heard a stricken animal yelping in his own voice. He tried to curl up to minimize the agony, but it was everywhere, in every cell of him.
He wanted just for an instant, fervently, to die so it would end.
Then the wave of torment rolled over him and he was beached on the other side. He lay there gasping, flat on his back with tears streaming from his eyes. His abdomen was heaving as if there were an alien inside about to burst out. He coughed and it sent excruciating ripples through every part of him. He needed to spit, and turned his head as carefully as if his neck were made of glass.
From his sideways viewpoint, he realized that everyone he could see was in the same state. The square was full of fallen, writhing, groaning people. The Security guards, too, by the look of it, though his vision was too blurry to be certain.
So that was Skill, Luke thought, when he found himself able to think. The sexy, subtle magic from Abi’s books. The Skill with which smoldering Equals seduced women, wove exquisite illusions for them, and punished those who tried to hurt their girl.
In reality, an agony so excruciating you wished you were dead.
How could you fight against that? How could you win against people who could do that? Not people—monsters. It didn’t matter that there were hardly any of them. There didn’t need to be.
Jackson was going to have to come up with a better plan than today’s, that was for sure.
Luke let his head fall back onto the gritty ground. All around him he could hear people sobbing, swearing; a few throwing up.
Then in his peripheral vision—movement. A pair of black boots came to a halt by the side of his face. The toecap of one insinuated itself beneath his cheek and turned his head. He looked up into Kessler’s meaty face as the man bent over him.
“Wishing you’d let me catch you earlier, Hadley?”
The tip of a long baton tapped the row of eyelets on Kessler’s boots—not impatiently. Slowly. As if he had all the time in the world.
“Now, here’s a funny thing,” Kessler continued. “When we were trying out our stunners on a few troublemakers earlier, we found they weren’t having quite the usual effect. Seems some scallywag must have been messing with the settings. But don’t you worry. I can do this the old-fashioned way.”
Kessler grinned, his lips going thin like a dog’s. The baton stopped tapping. Luke saw the black length of it upraised above his head.
“I’m going to miss you, E-1031. But they’ll take good care of you where you’re going.”
Luke closed his eyes before Kessler’s arm smashed down.
When he came round, his head felt twice its normal size. He couldn’t see. For a terrified moment he was convinced that Kessler’s blow had done awful damage, detached something in his head beyond repairing. Then he thought his eyes must be swollen shut.
It was only once his vision had adjusted that he realized he was in a cramped, windowless space.
And it was moving.