I got up and made my way to the front door, a little bell ringing as I pushed it open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The temperature had dropped and the snow was picking up. I joined the flow of foot traffic and started back toward the garage to get my car.
At the intersection, the light had changed again and I stood with the rest, waiting while snow began to blanket the vehicles that piled up along the side street in front of us. The spot where the revivor had stood was less than ten feet away from me.
The kid was right, though. The wound had healed, and you couldn’t tell. The city had been bruised but not beaten.
So far.
Calliope Flax—Bridgeway Towers Apartments, Unit #1042
Every night, it was the same goddamned dream.
The faces and the voices changed, and even the body I looked out of changed, but it was the same place every time.
I was strapped to a gurney while guys in rubber suits pushed me down a hall. I could see and hear, but I couldn’t move. A door crashed open and they took me through to some big warehouse or hangar. Sheets of heavy plastic, some specked with blood, hung from hooks to screen off work areas, and I could see metal tanks with heavy hatches down there, fingers and palms pressed against glass ports. More guys in those hooded suits moved through the rows, and in an open spot in the middle, dirty naked people were on their knees, their necks chained to metal posts.
They wheeled me through and shoved open one of the plastic sheets. The space inside was full of equipment —an oxygen tank and trays of probes and wires. Shapes in white coats stood over me. One prepped a hypo, and I felt it prick my bicep.
Someone pressed a plastic mask to my face. Cold air went up my nose and things went blurry. One of them moved a bright light over me as they crowded around. Another one of them used a pair of shears to cut down the middle of my shirt, then leaned in with a fistful of long needles.
Who I was in the dream seemed to change. This time my chest was smooth, with no hair, but it belonged to a guy. I felt a sharp prick as the first needle went in. An old man’s hand pushed it through the skin, then stuck a wire to the other end. Then he stuck the next one in, and the next.
Thoughts that weren’t mine ran through my head: how it wasn’t my fault and I didn’t know why I was there. I didn’t know who the people were. No one would talk to me.
The doc leaned in and shone a light in my eye. In back of him, hands pushed a big piece of hardware over my chest. I could make out a big tube with a glass lens in it as they adjusted the rig until it was aimed at my heart.
There was a loud snap, and a low hum came from the tube. My hairs stood on end. The needles that stuck out of me shook a little, and a sick feeling dropped into my gut.
There was another snap, and pain bolted through my chest. My eyes rolled, and bile burned up my throat. The docs faded, and the lights went out….
I jerked awake in bed and grabbed my chest. My heart pounded under my hand, and I wiped the sweat off my face. Static hissed in my ears, that white noise in the back of my head that never stopped.
“Fucking thing …”
The dream was real; that was the worst part. Nico called it passive feedback. It started after the tanker. I was dead for more than two minutes out there, and I didn’t turn revivor, but it was close. He shocked my heart and brought me back, but the static kicked in then, background noise from the other Huma carriers—Fawkes’s little army. Every time we grabbed one of them and took them wherever it was they went, later I’d have the dream.
That receiver in their heads, in my head, waited day in and day out for Fawkes to give the order. When he did, that would be it; dead and back again in under a minute. For most of them. Not for me. At least, that was the plan.
In the dark, I heard my phone beep.
Before I’d shipped out, eight was early, but in boot camp, I found out what early was. I marched and ran drills before sunup like a robot, and hated every second. Two months in, though, I got used to it. Six months in, I learned to like it. Over there, it was the only time of day that wasn’t like a furnace. By eight it was hot as hell, and the sun never let up—no clouds, no rain, just dust, sweat, and bugs.
I yawned and rolled over. I wondered for the millionth time where that place in the dream was. Where they took the carriers we found and what they did with them.
It was still dark out, but down on the street the traffic was gearing up. I grabbed my phone and checked the time: 4:38 a.m. It beeped again.
The screen said SINGH, RIDDHI. I flipped it open.
“What the fuck do you want, Singh?”
“Rise and shine, soldier,” he said. He sounded up. I pushed the covers away and sat on the edge of the bed.
“You’re an asshole. You know that?”
“Yeah, I know.”
Singh was part of my squad at Stillwell Corps. After the rat’s nest Nico stirred up two years back, the UAC got hard-core about home defense. Stillwell took the bid to watch the streets and got big, quick. Word got out they wanted firsts—ex-military types looking for action—and just like that I doubled my pay, with the full package thrown in. I got to soldier again, and found out I’d missed it. On the record, we watched for terrorist threats. Off the record, we spent most of our time on one threat: Heinlein’s little field test gone wrong.
“Get to the point, Singh.”
“We found another hot spot.”
Hot spot. That was Singh-speak for Huma carriers, the M10-positive, third-tier dregs.
“So tell Ramirez,” I said.
“I did. He said to call you.”
Singh always found them first. He never went in—that was me—but Singh found them first.
“How do you track the damn things?” I asked.
“I’m just that good.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“You got the biceps; I got the brains.”
I made a fist. That was a nerve I didn’t like touched.
“I’m going to pound the fuck out of you, Singh,” I said, but my heart wasn’t in it.
“Promises. You want the location?”
“More than life.”
The data came in and I laid it over the map. The mark was close to Bullrich.
“What a shock,” I said.
