Broken Page 10

  And indeed, a soft yellow light could be seen through the blizzard.

  * * *

  Michael knocked at the door again.

  A middle-aged woman opened it a crack. "What do you want?" she asked suspiciously.

  "Please, can we come in?" Michael begged.

  "Why are you out in this weather?"

  "We’re refugees," Monica said. "From the city! Please."

  The woman scowled. "Only criminals are refugees. The screen said so. You must be some of those UNP people. I’m not sharing my house with terrorists!"

  "Wait!" Michael said. "We’re not—" But she had already slammed the door in their faces.

  "Bet you didn’t see that coming, either," Monica sniped. "Now what?"

  "I don’t see everything. Hey!" He pounded on the door. "Please!"

  The woman opened the door a crack. "I’ve already called the police. Get lost."

  * * *

  They tried the next house, and the next. They were coming back down into a more populated area now, a small town somewhere in New Jersey, but the answer everywhere was the same: Go away. We don’t want refugees. We don’t want trouble. You’re probably criminals if you’re running.

  "Damn Reformist sons-of-bitches," Monica swore. "This is all their fault, with their stupid propaganda!"

  "Didn’t you say you really are a UNP member?" Michael asked.

  "Maybe. Fuck you! You believe this, too?"

  "No. But people would be right to be scared of hiding you."

  She sighed, and had to agree that this was true.

  They huddled against the side of a brick building for warmth. "Why did we leave that library?" Monica complained. "What was the reason? So we could stay out here and die from the cold?"

  "We won’t die from the cold," Michael said, although in truth he hadn’t checked. He was discovering he could block possibilities more effectively by simply keeping his eyes off everyone. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

  "Come on," Broken said, standing up. "Snow’s bad. There’s places to go."

  They walked along the backs of the buildings on the main street. Broken tried door handles, one after the other, but nothing opened. Up ahead, a restaurant’s lights glimmered invitingly.

  "We need to eat," Michael said. "Come on. It’ll be warm."

  "They might kick us out," Monica pointed out.

  Michael reached up into his pant leg and pulled out one of the bills. "We’ll be fine. We’re paying customers."

  Monica stared at him in disbelief. "Why didn’t you mention that you had money before?"

  "I thought I had," Michael said nonchalantly. "Besides, we haven’t really needed it yet. Come on, let’s go."

  "Food," agreed Broken.

  "We could have been staying in a hotel," Monica seethed. "We could have been eating well. I ought to kill you."

  * * *

  Even with a storm raging outside, the restaurant was full. A lot of the people sitting in the booths and at the counter looked like they’d seen better days. There were screens set up all over the place, showing images of the crisis.

  "Terrorist actions in the cities of Chicago and Boston have been quelled," intoned an attractive man with perfect hair. He was one of the main newscasters for North America; people trusted him. He wore a tiny white star with black highlights on his lapel—a Reformist pin. That was new. "Other UNP-backed riots and terrorist actions are being contained in Los Angeles and New York. The Peltan Administration says it expects peace to return by the end of the day."

  "About time," someone muttered.

  "Across the world, the few riots that erupted in Asia and Australia were quickly subdued, and no further terrorist activity has taken place there. Australia is quiet at this hour, as the Peltan Administration prepares for the President himself to address an emergency session of the Senate tomorrow at noon Central Australian Time—ten o'clock tonight for our viewers here.. The Administration has issued a warning for any potential terrorists against taking action against government forces."

  The scene shifted to a spokesman for the Administration, standing in front of an image of black-clad soldiers fighting. Words on the soldiers’ uniforms were barely but obviously visible: "Virtue, Honor, Loyalty, Strength." Others had simply "VHLS" on their helmets. The Reformist credo. The sternly handsome spokesman cleared his throat and spoke. He looked strong and resolute; his brows were knitted together, his jaw jutted out.

  "These terrorists pose a threat to our most basic freedoms, and must be stopped. Rest assured that our government will not rest until they all have been killed or captured. Any and all UNP members are encouraged to voluntarily surrender to the government for a loyalty inspection. Most of you are innocent of any wrongdoing, and will be released quickly. However, we will find those who are guilty of aiding, abetting and, indeed, becoming terrorists. Those who do not comply will be assumed to be on the side of evil."

  Someone snorted. His friend shushed him.

  "We understand that these are unusual measures. However, we have been elected to protect the security of humanity, and protect it we will. The moral and ethical deterioration of the core membership of the United Nations Party was completed when it rose up against the government it helped to found, and that rotting cancer must be expunged from the body of humanity."

  He suddenly took on a softer tone, his eyes relaxing from their intense stare. Now he looked like a sympathetic boyfriend.

  "We understand as well that many thousands of innocents and families have been displaced by this terrible crisis. Our hearts go out to them, and to them we say: Your government will be there. Already we have provided hundreds of thousands of tons of food for refugee camps. President Peltan cares about his people, and will see that they are well provided for. Thank you all."

  The newsreader reappeared. "In other news, the Emperor of the Rogarians has sent a message communicating his hopes for peace on our world to all humans. The emperor says—"

  A surly-looking waitress strode up to them. "Make it quick," she snapped. "You got money, right?"

  "Right," Michael said.

  "Extra charges today, to cover fees during the crisis.” Michael shrugged. Whatever. As long as they were warm and fed, it was worth whatever it cost.. “So what can I get you?"

  They ordered. "Hey, can we have a bottle of warm milk for the baby?" Monica asked; Ian was crying, and other customers were starting to shoot glares their way.

  "Can’t help you. Go next door, if they’re still open. Damn broke-ass refugees, they’re shutting everything down."

  "I’d better go," Monica sighed, scooping up the wailing infant. "I’ll be right back."

  "Maybe she’ll change him," Broken said.

  Michael smiled back. "I sure hope so. I can’t stand that stink."

  "Good thing he’s so important. I’d leave him in the river."

  "Got that right," Michael said. "Hey, wait! You’re joking? You have a sense of humor?"

  Broken shrugged. "Life sucks. So I laugh."

  "That's a good way to be, I think," he nodded.

  Broken leaned forward. "So. You have a plan? For getting you-know-where?"

  Michael shook his head. "I have to level with you. I don’t. Besides walking, there’s little else for us to do. They’re distracted now, but as soon as things die down enough for us to use public transportation again, they’ll be back looking for us."

  "Tickets have a date?"

  He shook his head again. "They’re coupons, sort of. We redeem them as soon as we get to, uh, where we’re going. Then we can take the next flight, if there’s room."

  "I want to go to Valen," Broken said wistfully. "I hear it’s nice."

  "Yeah. Me, too. Lots of space, too, but not like here. It’s all open and new. All potential, not a decaying ruin."

  Broken sighed. "I’d like to have land. I grew up in a tower, spent most of my life there. After that, I lived on the city streets. I want to have somewhere that’s just mine, with just me."
/>
  This was the most she’d said at once since Michael had met her. He wanted to keep her talking. "Yeah... I’d like that, too. It’d be nice to own a little farm or something. We could go in together. Raise pigs."

  Broken wrinkled her nose. "I don’t think I like pigs."

  "Ever meet one?"

  She shook her head. "People say they smell."

  "That’s not true. Take it from me. Joe owned a little farm, a long time ago, and he had a big fat hog. That old thing just smelled like mud sometimes, not bad at all. Just a normal animal smell."

  Broken chewed on that for a while. "Maybe a horse?"

  "Horses are a lot of work," Michael said. "We had one for a little while, but we had to sell him."

  "Why?"

  "Too much money, too expensive. Joe wasn’t rich, and he didn’t really work. He just sold the eggs from the farm."

  "Is he dead?" asked Broken, characteristically blunt.

  He nodded. "Yeah. Two years ago, now."

  "And you don’t have parents?"

  "No. They died when I was a kid. I never knew them too well."

  "Me, neither," Broken said softly. "The Union took me when I was little, so I don’t remember them at all."

  Michael didn’t know what to say to that. To his surprise, Broken picked up the conversation, changing the subject.

  "So do you own the farm now?"

  "No," Michael answered. "We had to sell it a few years earlier to pay for his medical bills. So we were in an apartment in Litchfield those last years, which was hard for Joe. He always liked walking around his land."

  "I can understand that, I think," Broken said. She looked up at Michael, suddenly intense. "Do you think I really will fly again?"

  "Yes," he said, looking away. "It’s really possible. If we can do this." It had been true, once. He had seen it. What had changed? He peeked at her possibilities one more time.

  —The thin man—

  —The thin man—

  —The thin man—

  ...

  —Broken flew, graceful, beautiful, in the clear, deep blue skies of Valen.

  He hadn’t seen that in days. His sight was just messing around with him again. "You will," he said. "I’m going to make it happen."

  “I believe you,” Broken said. And, wonder of wonders, maybe she actually did.

  The waitress dropped their food on the table. "Other girl back yet?" she asked.

  "No," Michael said. "Soon, probably."

  "Here." She slammed a small glass of milk on the table. "That’s for the baby. You have a bottle, I hope?"

  "Sure," Michael said. "Thanks."

  "Stuff it." The waitress, out of breath, dashed to her next customer.

  The door banged open, and everyone fell silent. Three Black Bands strode cockily in, toting assault weapons, which they calmly leveled at the diners.

  "ID check," one announced. "Get ‘em out, people."

  "Hey," a reedy man with a thin mustache and a thinner voice said hesitantly, as everyone fumbled for their ID cards, "Can you do this? Is this legal?"

  In answer, one of the Black Bands went to stand next to him. "ID card, sir." The other two sniggered.

  He showed it to them. They scanned it. A predatory smile spread over the face of the man with the scanner.

  "Yeah, he’s UNP. Thought so. Come with us, buddy."

  "I’m not UNP!" he protested. "I’m not even registered! This is illegal! Come on—"

  They hauled him from his seat and pushed him out into the snow. An entire squad of Black Bands was in the street, bundling people into a big black hopper.

  "Let’s go, everyone. Cards out. Sooner we get this done, sooner you can go back to eating."

  Timidly, the diners pulled out ID cards. The Black Bands went from person to person, scanning cards. Most they left alone. A few they plucked from their seats, ordering them outside to be packed into the big military-grade hopper, which squatted, waiting, like a menacing black beetle.

  "You have one?" Michael asked Broken. She shook her head. "Shit." Michael had a few fakes; he didn’t know how good they were. Did any of them have political affiliations? He doubted it.

  He found one of the fakes and handed it to a Black Band when he passed by, hand out. The thug scanned it quickly and studied the information. Not finding what he was after, he handed the card back to Michael, and held a hand out to Broken.

  "I don’t have mine," she said softly.

  "My aunt here didn’t know she’d need one," Michael tried to explain. "She’s not UNP. She doesn’t even vote. She’s a good citizen, like me. Can you let it slide?"

  Instead of responding, he took a needle and jabbed it into Broken’s arm, sucking up blood and tissue. She yelped in surprise. He withdrew it and spat its contents into the scanner. It whirred for a second; a record came up.

  His eyebrows shot up, and a vicious smile bloomed on his dark features.

  "Go wait outside. Both of you. In fact, I’ll take you out there myself."

  Michael and Broken exchanged startled glances. The Black Band pointed the barrel of his rifle at them. "Get going. Or else I light you up."

  "Just go," someone hissed. "They’ll set the whole place on fire!"

  Michael and Broken stood slowly, covered by the Black Band, and marched outside. Snow was still falling lightly, and the sky was darkening fast.

  They couldn't escape. Michael knew it. He only hoped Monica and Ian were safe. Maybe he could get out later… but if they knew who Broken was, it was all lost anyway.

  "You see it?" Broken said softly. "See it?"

  "What?" Michael was confused.

  "Look." she whispered. "How you do."

  "No talking!" the Black Band said. "Get in the hopper, now."

  She stared imploringly at Michael, and he realized at last what she was talking about. He looked into her possibilities. His vision, for once, didn’t mess with him, didn't show him hundreds, thousands of potential scenarios. He saw exactly what she was planning, and nodded sharply.

  Without a word, she ducked low and twisted around, leg flashing out. The Black Band toppled to the ground, weapon flying. She pounced on him, screeching a wild berserker war cry, while the others, shouting and cursing, ran to his aid.

  She had no chance. There were too many of them.

  Michael took his cue and ran, not looking back.

  He ran like hell, down alleys and side streets, concealing himself wherever he could. Behind him, he could hear weapons fire.

  [CHAPTER 15]

  Broken whirled, faster than even she had thought possible, and decked the Black Band. He fell like a ton of bricks.

  This is fun! she thought, seeing Michael take off. Good. He saw it. Nice, having an ally who knew what you were going to do next. She thought about Sky Ranger as she clawed at the face of the Black Band, trying to get to his gun. The others were pounding up behind her. He would have liked Michael, back in the old days. Michael should have been in the Union, a power like that. Why wasn’t he?

  She spied the gun, and grabbed it. Magnificently, he let go as she ripped it away, turning to face the oncoming throng.

  "Yahhhhhhhh!" she shrieked, as loud as she could.

  * * *

  ”Scream. Make a noise. Really, it scares the shit out of them," Crimson Cadet said. "You especially, Sil. You sound like a banshee."

  * * *

  She squeezed the trigger. White-hot energy leapt out of the barrel—Ooo, one of the new plasma rifles! These are from the Rogarians. I like this!—and crackled through the air, catching one of them in the throat.

  The rest aimed and fired, not caring about their comrade on the ground behind her. As the fire seared her, boiled her, burned her, and turned her organs to ash, she thought about the headache she was going to have, and how good it was that she’d already eaten.

  * * *

  Michael ran until he thought his lungs would burst. Night had fallen quickly. Had they even noticed him escape in the chaos? He hid in a cops
e of trees outside of town for hours, waiting, wanting to leave but desperately needing to stay.

  He got his answer when he saw the hulking hopper take off, speeding away toward the city.

  Broken, come back to us, he urged silently. They might have loaded her body on board. Did he dare go back into town to check? Had the Black Bands left anyone behind to guard the place?

  He had to go. He owed it to Broken to at least check. He needed to find Monica and Ian, too.

  Michael fought with himself for a moment, then steeled himself and turned back towards the town.

  Slowly, furtively, he crept back through the darkness towards the diner. A few lazy streetlights flickered on here and there. It took him more than an hour of careful movements and ducking into alleys and behind bushes whenever someone approached to cover the ground he had run over in just three minutes the last time.

  At last, he faced the open lot in front of the diner where the hopper had landed. Two Black Bands swore and laughed on the steps. In the snow, Michael thought he could make out a dark patch, maybe a bloodstain.

  No bodies. They’d taken her.

  "Michael!" someone hissed in his ear. He jumped, terrified, , and whirled to find Monica holding Ian.

  "Hey!" he whispered. "Hey, you’re all right!"

  "Yeah, what happened? They didn’t come in the store, so I stayed there. What’s going on? Where’s B?"

  "Took her," Michael said, jerking his chin towards the Black Bands. "Long gone, now."

  "What, you didn’t save her? Couldn’t you see it coming?"

  "I can’t see everything!" he hissed. "Look, let’s get going. She’ll catch up if she can."

  "How can you say that?" Monica grabbed his arm. "We have to rescue her! They’ll kill her!"

  "They probably already did. I saw a pool of blood out there."

  Her face contorted, and she looked about ready to kill him. "Don’t you care at all?"

  "Sure, I care, but it's not like it matters. Broken never stays dead."

  "What?" said Monica. "You mean that healing thing she does—?"

  Michael nodded.

  "Well...” she stammered, clearly flustered. “Well—well you’re a jerk for not telling me before. I was worried sick!"