Shards and Ashes

Dogsbody by Rachel Caine

WHEN I WAS thirteen, Corporate handed out free tickets to the Cup game to kids on Level K. A lottery win, they said, as they visited each narrow little apartment and listed off kids by name.

By the time they got to Gray, Xavier, I had already heard all about it. Could have ducked it, I guess; my folks were long dead, and at thirteen I was mostly on my own anyway. But I was big, strong, and maybe a little stupid, ’cause I still thought I had a bit of luck, and it had finally paid off.

So I took my ticket, and the Company man crossed my name off on his handheld and told me to have a nice time. He had a tight, empty smile.

Should have known better, about the luck.

See, we all knew better, that was the thing; Level K was a hard place, and we didn’t get much. Getting a ticket to the Cup was something that happened up on Level A, maybe B . . . not down here in the dark.

But everybody wants to believe in something, and we believed in the Cup game.

So that morning, some two thousand kids arrived painted in crude makeup. They carried makeshift signs to wave and clutched tickets like they were passes to heaven itself. Two thousand shining, excited faces. Mine among them.

The trains pulled in on time—big, shining, sleek things, all lights and glass and gleams. They were so beautiful, so unreal they might have been from another planet. Kids watched with rounded eyes, opened mouths as they realized, just as I did, how drab and broken our station looked, with its cracked tiles and rusty metal.

Maybe it was just that I was a bit older than the others, or I was naturally suspicious, but I thought it was strange there were no adults here to see us off. Not one nervous parent, not one idle gawker. Nobody had come.

All kids. All alone. Clutching tickets.

Hackles prickled at the back of my neck.

“Zay,” a girl’s voice said, and a hand caught me on the shoulder. It was Virtue, another orphan; we sometimes scrabbled together; sometimes we fought each other over a particularly good find or job. She was a little younger, maybe twelve, and turning womanly with it. Not in a bad way, though. “Zay, you going?”

“I guess I will,” I answered, and shrugged. “Got a ticket. You?”

She held up her ticket for an answer, between thin fingers with broken nails. Then she shook her head, took her ticket and tore it in half, in two jagged pieces, and let it fall to the ground.

“What are you doing?” I blurted; couldn’t help the knee-jerk appalled feeling, seeing that coveted ticket go to waste. Could’ve sold it premium.

Virtue looked tense and very, very serious. “Look around. All these mouths heading up toward the Cup. There’ll be prime pickings around here for a while, Zay. Jobs still need doing. We wouldn’t have to come to knives over it. You should stay too.”

I sent her a long, level look, and said, “You know something wrong about this, V?”

There wasn’t much to betray it, a slight widening of her eyes, but I knew I’d hit the mark. She shrugged, just a tiny shiver of muscles, and said, “Nobody here to see us off. Don’t you think that’s wrong? It’s like they weren’t allowed.”

“You think it’s a trap?” I said.

She frowned for a few seconds in silence, then shook her head. “No proof, but I’m playing it safe. You ought to do the same.”

Fine, I was thinking, but what if this is all the luck I ever get? How do I let that go? “Hard to pass up something like this. A real holiday, and all.” I knew she was right, and it made me feel hollow and cheated inside, and stubborn. I was a tough boy. I could take care of myself.

She looked wounded. I knew I’d hurt her; she’d put herself on the line to warn me, and I was throwing it back. “Fine. Go on, get coddled by Corporate. But don’t blame me when I grab the good jobs.” She started to turn away. I held her arm, just for a second.

“I reckon I’ll go,” I said. “But if this goes sideways, you take it out on somebody for me, hard. Swear.”

Virtue’s eyes widened, but she was quick to spit on her hand and hold it out. I spit on mine, and we slapped palms. Deal done.

The trains gave out a heavy, almost human sigh, and the doors opened on every car. Kids shouted and shoved forward, waving their signs and makeshift rag pom-poms. I started to queue up, and Virtue grabbed my arm.

“What?” I asked. “Deal done, right?”

“Sure,” she said, and for a second looked outright scared. “Zay, just . . . watch yourself.”

Before I could answer, Virtue faded back. I saw her Cup ticket halves blowing in the breeze of the tunnel, and then she was a flicker of movement in the sea of pressing bodies.

Then she was gone.

I joined the flow and was swept into the nearest car, throwing elbows into those who got too close. Most gave me a wide berth; I was a big, strong kid, and had a rep for a temper. Most didn’t try to cross me. Nobody did, more than once.

Inside the train, the seats were plush, clean, and a rich shade of red, like fresh blood. I sank down, a little dazed by the metal and the carpets and the softly playing music, as the last of the kids shoved on board and found seats. There was one empty next to me, as others gave me a wide margin of respect. A very small girl, maybe six, was the last one on, clutching her ticket in both hands and looking around in utter terror.

I grabbed her arm and sat her down in the seat beside me. She let out a yelp of surprise and fear and cowered. I scowled. “Name’s Zay,” I said. “Don’t bother me; I won’t bother you.”

She blinked. She was a tiny thing, skin and bones really, with masses of soft black hair twisting their way into dreadlocks, and eyes like pools of oil. “Pria,” she said, and tried for a smile. “Thanks for the seat, Mr. Zay.”

“It’s just Zay; I’m no Corporate drone,” I said, but deep down inside, I was a little pleased. It was the first time in my life anyone had ever called me Mr.

Pria’s face lit up, and I think she would have talked my damn ear off all the way to the upper levels and the stadium . . . but then the doors hissed open again as a stranger got on board. He was Corporate, there was no doubt of it; he was wearing a black jacket, with the Corporate logo on the pocket, and he had one of those neat, short haircuts and an earpiece, just like you see on the monitor commercials.

Pria’s eyes were black, but this man’s were dark. It wasn’t the color. It was what was in them. The kids fell silent, sensing a predator, and I did the same, and squeezed Pria’s hand to warn her to be quiet. She didn’t really need that, but I needed to do it.

“Welcome to your new life of service,” the man said, and took a small, sleek handheld device from his pocket. “I will need ten from this car. Hands up, those who want to volunteer.”

Nobody moved. Nobody. I don’t even think anybody breathed.

The man sighed and looked put out about it. “All right. It’s lottery, then. Seat numbers—” He punched something on his keypad and read off a string of randomly generated digits.

One of them was my seat.

The other kids were reluctantly standing, pale and shaking. Pria looked at me with horrified eyes, her hand still clutched in mine. “Zay,” she said. “Don’t go!”

The Corporate drone counted heads, frowned, and I saw him identifying seats and finding me. Our gazes locked. “You,” he said. “Your number is up.”

I stared at him and let my face go blank and stupid. It was something I was really good at; I could look barely functional when I wanted. I’d learned it from Dad, only his hadn’t really been faked. He’d gotten his from the gasses in the mines.

“Oh, for the love of— Are you defective?” He shook me. I let some drool wet my chin. “All right, then. You, girl. Get up.”

He pointed to Pria, and she sucked in a trembling breath and cowered in her seat.