Welcome to the world of backyard camping! It’s the time of year when many of us in the Rocky Mountains (and maybe elsewhere, but that’s none of my business) itch to get away into the wilderness. But guess what? That wilderness is either closed or crawling with disease! Well…not the wilderness itself, but you know, the johnny cans and water pumps and whatnot. (Don’t judge me. I used to backpack into the wilds, but kids and laziness have conspired to make me…lazy.)
The solution? Backyard camping! Last weekend I put in the fire pit. We spent a few days teasing the excitement to our kids and making preparations. (By preparations, I mean my wife bought stuff, planned stuff, and cooked stuff while I did nothing.) Then came the big night. Allow me to set the scene.
Weather conditions: perfect.
Dinner plans: beer-boiled-brats, coleslaw and potato chips
Camping location: freshly mowed backyard
Enthusiasm level: high
Six o’clock pm rolls around and it’s go time. I set up the tent just as the backyard begins to fall into shadow (from the neighbor’s large tree that luckily I didn’t cut down for firewood). I spark up the grill and sear the brats to perfection. We set the back table and dig into the German-style cookout. Phase one is complete and all is optimal.
Now for the tricky stuff otherwise known as phase 2: games. We break out the Bocce ball set and begin a family competition. The teams are inevitably me and my oldest son vs. my wife and my youngest son. (My oldest son can’t stomach losing and he knows I’m the winner in the family. My youngest son is the people pleaser and he knows my wife won’t criticize his goofy shot-put attempts at Bocce.)
We make it to a surprisingly close score of 6 to 6 before the kids lose interest, I declare next point wins, and then quickly wrap up the match with a devastatingly tactful smothering of the jack ball.
Surprise Twist: my youngest son digs out the forgotten croquet set(s) cobbled together from the surviving mallets that haven’t met their demise from being used as rock-crushing hammers or imaginary Minecraft equipment. The next thing I know, we’re playing the first game of family croquet in five years. I wisely make it a very small course and give my youngest son several extra shots. (He is still very much in last.)
My oldest son complains about being in the lead, but not being in the lead as much as he would like. He ultimately wins as we degrade into “poison” rules and my youngest son starts playing polo without the horse. Everyone has a good laugh, and I check off the trickiest portion of the evening as a success. Now for phase 3: fire.
My oldest son is given the duty of arranging the kindling and starting the fire. After a small freakout when his first “teepee” falls over, he completes the task and sparks it up. My brilliant airflow design sucks oxygen around the outside of the fire ring and underneath the bottom where it filters through the rocks and serves to quickly turn our fledgling fire into a nice backyard blaze.
While the wood burns down to marshmallow-browning temps, I regale my family with the childhood story of when I burned off my eyebrows and eyelashes. We roast the marshmallows to perfection, squish them between graham crackers, and stuff them into our faces. (I refrain, because I believe my body is a temple reserved for popcorn and wine.) Phase 3 is a total success. All that’s left is the downhill stretch: playtime in the tent.
We’re golden! Home free! We get the kids ready for bed and toss all of their “stuffies” into the tent along with enough pillows for a harem. My wife and I head inside to congratulate ourselves on how wonderful our kids are and pour ourselves some adult beverages.
Two minutes later our oldest son enters the house with a bloody lip. He’s muttering something about not going back outside. My wife ventures to the backyard tent to find our youngest son dizzy and crying about being beaten within an inch of his life.
Oh well, hopefully they’ll grow up remembering the effort we put into it. Right? The poor tent is still just sitting there in the backyard. At least the sprinklers didn’t come on.
At the Desk This Week
I did writing stuff! This past week, I managed to squeeze out 3500 words like o.j. from a shriveled, old orange. The ole’ engine is smoking a bit more than normal, but eventually we’ll burn that extra oil off. Plus, I think I figured out how to dial up the jeopardy another notch for Calli, my main protag.
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Outburst: Ep.4, Scene 4 — Ep.4, Scene 9
[Click here to start at the beginning.]
Centavo leads me into the night air. All signs of the sun have completely disappeared below the horizon. Less than a block from the Shadows, we stroll side by side as if we’d wandered here aimlessly. Or perhaps Centavo is a grandfather casually reminding his granddaughter of the fate of chadzitzin.
A jumble of concerns, my mind is anything but casual or aimless. I start with the most accessible concern. “Have you checked on Neca?”
“Yes.” Centavo glances at me, his hands clasped behind his back. “He is weak, but recovering quickly. Huatiani only intended to shame him.”
“Was that his punishment?” I shiver as I remember Huatiani’s weathered face and distant eyes hovering over me. “I mean, the general said Neca had paid in full.”
Centavo nods. “Huatiani was one of the last from an earlier time. The world he believed in betrayed him many years ago. Unfortunately he could not adapt.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“Neca tried to protect you. Huatiani’s punishment was to prove him a failure.” At the end of the block we turn right and head west toward the Palace Tower. “The system is designed to break you, Calli.”
I twinge at the old man’s ability to shift instantly from formal to casual. “Why would they want to do that? How would a bunch of cowering weaklings help defeat our enemies?”
“The regime does not stop there. They put you back together, but more calloused and angry. Determined. A little less concerned about things such as beauty and truth.”
“Is that why you started drawing? Or why you turned to plants?”
“Why did you turn to dyes?” He flips it on me.
“To provide a living for me and Olin.”
“Of course,” he says dismissively.
“You know what? Forget it. Why don’t we just walk in silence?”
Centavo nods, hands still clasped behind his back. His stride is aggressive without being heavy. Even while relaxed, he projects power. Power and mystery.
Oppressed by the sticky night air, sweat beads across every surface of my skin. I breathe deeply and try to swallow a growing knot of anger. In effort to distract myself, I study the dozens of lit windows on either side of the walkway. Occasionally a face passes behind one, focused on a simple task like cooking or cleaning. The fact they have time for such things angers me further.
Since Centavo’s appearance on the roof, I’ve made an effort not to antagonize him. But I can’t take it anymore. His arrogance, his selective information, his mocking of my absent braid followed by cryptic comments intended to spark my hopes—all of it has slowly choked me with rage.
“What do you want with me?” I shout. “What are you doing to my brother? Why are you helping us?” Lowering my voice to a growl, I continue through clenched teeth. “And so help me gods if you say anything about my parents’ dying wish.”
“Nearly a minute.”
“What?” I snap.
“The length of our walk in silence.”
“Fine,” I pinch the bridge of my nose, “I get it. You’ve screwed up in life. You made the wrong people angry. Maybe one of Huatiani’s creative punishments put you here in Worker City. Personally, I don’t care. You either knew my parents or studied enough to make it convincing. I might be a braidless chadzitzin, but I’m not an idiot.”
I glance around. No one is nearby. “Don’t pretend your interest in Olin and me amounts to nothing more than some sort of redemption story. I’ve done enough deals in the market to recognize when somebody’s holding back and when they’re looking for more in return. So let’s get on with it. We both know you’re holding the most valuable card.”
“And that is?”
“Olin’s registration. Nothing else matters. You get Olin into Masa Academy, and whatever it is you want from me, I’ll do it.”
Centavo says, “For someone so experienced, you’re not very good at this.”
I clench my fists and suppress a scream. “You impossible, old—”
He interrupts, “The deal’s not fair. I reject it.”
“What? How can you, why are we—”
“You have underestimated the value of what you have to offer, or perhaps I have not made myself clear.”
“Clarity,” I slap my forehead, “now there’s a concept. Why don’t you start with that?”
Centavo chuckles.
I stop one impulse short of punching his smarmy little face. Then again, I’d probably find myself in air prison before I could land the first jab.
He lifts his gaze toward the top of the Palace Tower, several blocks away. “I am offering to help you register for the academy. As a matter of fact, I am promising it for you and your brother both.”
This time the silence lasts for several blocks. Anything I think of saying would only raise my hopes. I’m too fragile to survive another back and forth with nothing less than my life’s dreams at stake.
Centavo stops a block shy of the sprawling government complex. The multifaceted building clings to the gently sloping base of the Palace Tower like coral vine on the trunk of an ahuehuetl. Its patchwork of iron-foam, stone, and adobe combines with the Palace Tower to create a sort of throwback to the early pyramids of my people—from a time before the twitch virus and domed cities like New Teo.
After we stop, I realize Centavo still hasn’t mentioned what he wants in return. It doesn’t matter. He knows I’ll accept his help, and then he’ll own me. “You can really access our records?”
“Even better. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” I scan the public square for figures lurking in shadow. “Not out here.” Centavo points with his chin. “In there.”
I eye the old man suspiciously. “You’re not turning me in, are you?”
He snorts. “Now that you mention it, that would be easier. Perhaps then I wouldn’t need to leave town.” I shift my weight onto my toes. “Apologies. I suppose that was an old man’s failed attempt at a joke. Come, I have a friend inside who can help us.”
“Why does that not surprise me?”
Instead of walking toward the complex, Centavo walks away. “What can I say? I’m a people person.”
It’s my turn to snort. “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor completely.”
Centavo leads me down an alley where he opens a nondescript, wooden door. The two of us step into a small entryway buzzing with fluorescent lights and barred by a second door. This one is metal, secured by an official government braid scanner.
“I hope you weren’t relying on me for access,” I quip.
“An unfortunate joke indeed,” he says.
I gasp as Centavo threads his braid through the scanner. Before I can stop him, the door clicks open. “How—”
He glares at me, his finger to his lips. I nod and follow him through the door. My mind races. For the first time since feeling the hot pinch of Huatiani removing my braid, I allow myself hope. If Centavo has the ability to copy a braid with security clearance, maybe he can copy mine.
The lights turn on with our entrance. A cursory glance reveals we’ve entered a storage facility. Shelves full of file boxes crowd the walkway.
We weave our way toward an addition on the back of what appears to have originally been a residence. Stairs leads down. At the bottom, we find another door and scanner. Centavo clicks it open using his prosthetic braid. This time no automatic lights flicker on to greet us.
Centavo closes the door and blocks out the last shred of sight and sound. He sparks a green flame from his fingers, illuminating a narrow tunnel. “Even the government has an underground.” The air inside is dry and sterile, like that of Izel’s apartment building in Immortal City.
“Meaning we’re off the map?” I ask.
Centavo nods while leading the way. “Officially, the place to which we are headed doesn’t exist.”
I swallow. “So nothing that happens there officially happens?”
“Its current use is much less nefarious than in the old days.”
The tunnel continues for over a hundred meters in a straight line without interruption—no openings, no sounds from the outside world. Even our own muffled footsteps are barely audible. The silence rattles me. “You really used to work in the Palace Tower?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve held many positions, requiring all sorts of work. Some in the tower, yes.”
I cluck my tongue. “Why can’t you speak like a normal person?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Centavo asks.
“You’re the only person I know who can take a simple one word answer and turn it into an essay.” I shake my head. “If you think it adds to your mystique, it doesn’t. It’s just really annoying.”
“My mystique?”
“Don’t pretend it’s not intentional. You know, the whole ‘I’m just like you, only more powerful, connected, and fascinating in every way’ bit that you do.” Loosening up, I find my sarcastic rhythm. “I mean, seriously. You can’t even enter a room normally. You have to just, appear. Like on the roof earlier, I bet you even planned to have the sun at your back.”
We reach a door built into the end of the tunnel. It’s iron, with two giant hinges but no handle or scanner. Centavo pauses. “Hmmm, I suppose you’re right. That was pretty melodramatic on the roof. This time, shall we try something more straight forward?” While looking at me, he extends an arm and knocks—three steady raps on the heavily armored hatch.
I try to settle the anxiety in my gut. “Well, I mean, that wasn’t exactly what I—” a loud scraping reverberates from the other side of the door. A few seconds later it swings open, releasing a rush of conditioned air.
A girl’s voice escapes into the tunnel along with the rush of air. “It’s so nice having company. I didn’t know if you’d make it tonight, after all that’s happened.” The partially-opened hatch blocks my view of the voice’s owner.
Centavo strides into the room, his arms open wide. He disappears behind the metal door. He says, “Nonsense. You should know a few piddly attacks on the perimeter wouldn’t keep me away.”
Stepping forward and craning my neck, I’m baffled by what I see. A tiny girl, possibly thirteen, has her arms wrapped around Centavo’s neck. They’re hugging. Not knowing what else to do, I gawk and wait to be noticed.
Over Centavo’s shoulder, the girl spots me. Squeaking, she jumps backward. “You kept your word!”
Centavo mocks offense, “You sound surprised.”
“Well, not surprised. It’s just—”
“You didn’t think you were worth it.” Centavo shakes his head. “I will not always be here to remind you of your extreme value, and not just to me. You are special, Zorrah. You cheat the world by not believing this.”
The girl, Zorrah, responds, “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
“Do not apologize to me. I am one of the few lucky enough to call you friend.”
Wondering if I was supposed to wait in the tunnel, my attention drifts about the room. Lit by fluorescent lights, the space is as cramped as the records room we passed through to get here. Instead of files, the shelves are cluttered with completely alien electronic and mechanical garbage. Strangest of all is the presence of a solitary, young girl.
“Speaking of, let me introduce the two of you. Zorrah,” Centavo steps out of the way, “meet Calli Bluehair.”
I wince. Centavo’s use of my acquired name still stings. Self-conscious about the ragged bald spot on the back of my head, I step forward wearing a strained smile.
The tiny girl stares at the floor as she reaches across to embrace my forearm. “It’s really nice to meet you.” We lock forearms for only a second. “Uncle Centavo has told me about the beautiful clothing you dye. It must be so rewarding to—” she gasps and shrinks away.
I glance at ‘Uncle’ Centavo with a raised brow. I’m about to ask him what’s going on when Zorrah continues in a whimper.
“Your braid? I’m so sorry.” She looks to Centavo. “I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t have. It just happened.” He rests a hand on each of our shoulders. “And obviously, it was not part of the plan.”
“Wait a minute.” I pull away. “Plan? What plan? And when did you have time to tell her about me?” The timid Zorrah retreats to a work station littered with blinking lights.
Centavo sighs. “Yesterday morning at my apartment, if you will recall, I mentioned my eagerness to meet you.”
I nod, half of my attention on the old man, the other half on Zorrah’s desk.
“That was very much the truth in more ways than one. It has long been my plan to introduce you to Zorrah. Both of you will be registering for the academy in three days time. Zorrah, while supremely talented in many discreet ways, is not blessed with your fortitude. I believe a relationship between the two of you will be mutually beneficial.”
Suspicious of multiple parts of his explanation, the one that strikes me as least plausible is Zorrah’s age. “Masa Academy?”
“Is there another?” he asks.
“Are you altering her file as well?”
“No,” Centavo smirks.
“So?” I wait for him to explain.
“You suggested I be more concise in my answers.”
“For the love of—”
“In this case I believe a demonstration will be more helpful.” Centavo proceeds to Zorrah’s work station. Standing over her, he places one hand on the edge of the table and the other on the back of her chair.
“Don’t worry,” Centavo consoles the tiny girl, “I’ll take care of the braid. All I need you to do is rewrite the files as we discussed.” Centavo pulls a piece of paper out of his tilmàtli, unfolds it, and places it next to Zorrah’s elbow.
“I’m ready. I’ve already talked it over with Icpitl One and Two.”
My curiosity gets the better of me. As I approach the workstation, it appears Zorrah is silently crying. I wonder if my aloofness has hurt her feelings. I didn’t mean to be callous, but finding a young girl behind a metal hatch beneath the government complex, after dark and all by herself, isn’t what I had expected. And besides, I thought Centavo had brought me here to fix my citizen records, not stage an academy mixer.
“You’ve prepared them.” Centavo moves a hand to Zorrah’s shoulder. “They will be safer in the wild.”
“I know.” Zorrah trembles. “It’s just that, well the system is so big, and expanding every day. I hope they don’t forget me.”
“Again, you undervalue yourself. I promise, you will see them again.”
Relieved I’m not the source of the girl’s grief, I still have no idea of whom she and Centavo are referring. I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. Who are Icpitl One and Two?”
“My best friends!” Zorrah shoots me a piercing look. I retreat a step.
Centavo taps the sheet of paper, returning the girl’s attention to the workstation. “You might not have known it at the time, but this is what you made them for. You must let them discover their full potential.”
Zorrah sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “I know.” She straightens the paper. After setting it down directly in front of her, she places her hands on two blinking metal boxes.
For several seconds she’s quiet. When I realize she’s reading, I shift subtly for a better view of the paper. I recognize enough to know it describes the phony records Centavo has cooked up for Olin and me. Our names are the same. Our parents are different, still alive. We live with them somewhere in District Eight—free of any possible connections to Centavo.
“It’s done.” Zorrah breathes deeply.
“Wait, just like that?” I ask.
Zorrah glances in my direction. “What do you mean, just like that?”
Centavo intercedes. “Icpitl One and Two are digital life forms. At the moment, they live within these boxes. Zorrah has fed them the information for your new records and explained to them what to do with it.”
“So they’re machines?”
“They are not machines!” Zorrah jumps up, balling her tiny fists at her sides.
I hold up my hands in apology. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“They are intelligent programs, as fully self-aware of their individuality as you or me.” Zorrah squeezes her eyes tight. Opening them, she sighs. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry, really.” She stares at the floor.
“No harm done.” I try to get her attention, to let her know that I’m fine. She won’t look up, so I continue speaking. “I understand. You’ve taken care of them their entire life—protected them, kept them safe. Now you’ll no longer be there for them every step of the way.”
Surprise in her eyes, Zorrah looks at me and nods. “You do understand.”
“I feel the same way about my little brother,” I smile.
“You mean Olin?” Zorrah raises her eyebrows, revealing her oversized eyes and creating a doll-like effect.
“So, Uncle Centavo has told you about him as well?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not really. I read the fake record, but I guess most of that isn’t true.”
Centavo clears his throat. “I knew the two of you would get along, but I’m afraid there is still the matter of releasing the icpitls.” His voice is kind and patient.
Briefly I wonder if I’ve misjudged Centavo. Am I really that difficult, or is he shifty enough to maintain completely different personalities with different people?
The old man continues, “Calli and I have another stop to make after this one. And while your parents may not notice whether you return home tonight, they certainly aren’t expecting to find you here when they clock in.”
Zorrah nods. “I suppose I should get it over with.” Snatching a cord from a hook on the wall, she attaches the first two boxes to a third. “From this terminal they’ll have access to the entire system.” Trembling, she places her hands on the two boxes containing the digital icpitls.
Zorrah’s naming of the programs after the bioluminescent insect whose strobing animates summer evenings causes me to imagine the programs as winged, electrical impulses flittering along the length of the chord.
Seconds later Zorrah’s shoulders sag. “They’re gone.”
The moment the words leave her mouth, an alarm reverberates from a nearby section of the complex.
Zorrah jumps to her feet and bolts toward a secure door leading further into the government complex. “I don’t understand.” She slaps her palm against the access panel for the braid scanner. Somehow, the door clicks open without scanning her braid. “I taught them to avoid detection.”
Centavo stops her from swinging the door wide open. “You’re sure you can override the alarm?” Zorrah glares at him. “If not, we should leave while we can,” Centavo suggests.
“I haven’t packed. Now get out of the way.” She tugs at the door.
Relenting, Centavo steps aside before turning to me. “Wait here.”
“Sure, no problem.” I follow the old man the moment he steps through the doorway.
Centavo glances over his shoulder. “Kids these days.”
I ignore his comment, focusing instead on Zorrah as she disappears into a stairwell. I add physical quickness to the growing list of her discreet talents. “Who is this girl? And what is she doing here?”
Centavo reaches the stairs a couple seconds behind Zorrah. “She has grown up here. Her parents were among the first tasked with digitizing city records.”
A door slams a flight above us. “How does she—”
“Her telekinesis. She can alter her frequency along the EM spectrum.” Centavo reaches the door and flings it open. “You and Olin have each other. She’s alone.”
“But her parents—”
“Have rejected her in advance.” Centavo sprints to our right. “They do not expect her to survive the academy.”
Zorrah disappears beyond a bend in the curved hall. “Another case of Centavo to the rescue?” I huff the question as I observe that this level of the building shows signs of regular use and maintenance.
“I do what I can.”
We pass a series of secured doors on both sides of the hall. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with the icpitls or her abilities.”
“As with Olin, it has everything to do with her abilities.” I hear Centavo’s temper creeping out in his tone of voice and decide not to push him further. Besides, I’m already short of breath. He says, “Otherwise, she would have no need of my help.”
The irritating bleep of the alarm shuts off the moment we catch up with Zorrah. She is leaning with her forehead against an access panel. “It doesn’t make sense. Someone added a new protocol hours ago, but why? And it only effected this one security lock—the very next one in the network after my lab.”
“That’s good, right?” I try to comfort her. “That means it wasn’t One and Two’s fault.” Zorrah smiles thinly and nods, then freezes. Footsteps echo in the distance.
“More importantly,” Centavo stands in the center of the hall, looking in one direction and then the other, “how are we going to exit?”
Zorrah panics. “We have to get back to my lab.” She thumps her head on the panel. Centavo looks as if he’s about to respond when he vanishes into thin air.
Before I can fathom his disappearance, my vision blurs. Strummed like the strings of a musical instrument, the air surrounding Zorrah and me dances. My gross motor muscles surrender to the paralyzing vibrations. Through the corner of my jittering eyes, a figure resembling Centavo reappears a few meters away. I’m unable to speak, but I can hear.
Over the loud hum inside my ears, I collect scattered phrases. “Coming soon…remote signals…mind pits…no good…without scrambling…”
I especially don’t like the last bit. To make matters worse, I realize the telekinetic field Zorrah and I are trapped in separates Centavo from the owner of the footsteps we heard moments earlier. Why couldn’t he have flashed in the other direction?
“You’ll have to…dirty.” The old man points.
Hours ago he had promised me I’d understand what getting dirty meant. Unfortunately for me and Zorrah, as I watch the blurry figure of a guard approach from the opposite direction, I don’t have the slightest idea what Centavo expects me to do, or how I’m going to do it. I try to focus my vibrating eyes again on the old man. He’s gone, nowhere to be found when I need him most.
I close my eyes and focus on what I know. If the mind pits are the source of the telekinetic field, that means we’re stuck in a remote door lock, an automated security measure. I’ve seen kids stuck in these before. Depending on the manual shut down option chosen, we’ll either be scanned and stunned for detention or left unharmed.
Botch the shutdown or disrupt the signal, and we’ll be scrambled—unless…something or someone grounds the field, in which case the bridging object will be scrambled instead. Unsure of why, I latch onto the last part.
I open my eyes. The air is bouncing worse. In my peripheral vision, the guard flips open the access panel. I can’t lose my future again. If there’s a telekinetic signal, there’s a source. Remote or not, I have to find it. But how?
Frustrated and desperate, I scream.
The jittering air slows. Caught in a mental cyclone I’ve never experienced before, my thoughts are sucked beneath the surface. The hallway falls away in shattered pieces, replaced by the image of a face in my mind’s eye—a young boy, larger than life. Orange flame streams from his mouth. Somehow, I’m envisioning the source of the telekinetic signal imprisoning me. I focus on quenching the flames, and from my mouth shoots a river of water.
The hallway returns suddenly.
In a spasm of rage, I clench my fist. Breaking free of the vibrating prison, I shoot out an arm and grasp the guard by his braid.
He jolts with surprise as I yank.
The air solidifies like millions of needles piercing my skin. All the fear and pain exploding throughout my body floods into my right hand, focusing there like the tip of a spear. And I scream, unleashing the caged demons pent up in my unseeable heart of hearts. No one will take anything from me ever again.
Silence rips through my brain as if erasing the memory of sound. For an instant, I’m falling. My head bounces off a hard surface. My eyes jar open. Two identical halls merge into one as up and down return to their proper places. I breathe. The air is rank, burnt. My body is numb. “Zorrah?”
I hear a nearby whimper in response. I realize I’m gripping something in my right hand. I hold it up. My brain registers what it is, and yet refuses to make sense of it. Finally the pieces collide. “What have I done?”
“What you had to.” Centavo’s voice startles me.
Jumping up and spinning to face the old man, I lose balance. I stumble backward and crash down on a warm, brittle heap. In horror, I realize what’s beneath me. I toss the salt and pepper braid in my hand as if it is a snake. I scramble to my feet and press against the wall. “Oh gods, I killed him. I killed him.” Frantically, I brush the brittle fragments of fused bone and charred flesh from the back of my tzotzomatli.
Centavo shakes me until I look at him. “Unfortunately, some of us are not given the luxury of clean hands.” He glances toward Zorrah. She is huddled in a ball and crying. “It is a sacrifice we make for the sake of others.”
I glare at him, replaying his words. “You promised I would get my hands dirty.” He nods. “You did this—the alarm, the guard—you staged this exact scenario just to make me a…” I can’t finish the sentence.
“Even if I did,” Centavo winks, “give yourself credit where credit is due, Calli Bluehair.” Smiling, he gestures toward the smoking human remains. “You did this all by yourself. Haven’t you questioned whether you could kill if the necessity arose? Now you know the answer, and there’s no going back.”
“I,” my breath comes in ragged gulps, “hate you.” I swallow my grief and rage, unable to fathom why anyone would be so wicked. Through all of it, I know one thing for certain. I’ll never give Centavo the pleasure of seeing me cry. I push it all down and wipe my eyes with my sleeve.
“As it should be,” he sighs. Stooping, he picks up the guard’s braid. It’s a dead ringer for the one dangling from the back of his own head. He stares beyond me and exhales. In the blink of an eye, both braids disintegrate.
He shakes his head, brushing away the dust that a moment earlier had been hair. He stares at me—cold, emotionless. “Some of us must be monsters.”
I can’t bear to think about all the things Centavo is capable of. Instead I turn to the tiny girl crumpled on the floor. “Zorrah, it’s okay. It’s all over now.” I pick her up.
She covers her face. “I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to see this place ever again.”
“Come on, we’ll get your things.” She’s light enough to carry, but I know she needs to walk away from this under her own strength. She stands on wobbly legs and wipes her eyes. I squeeze her hand. “You can stay with me and Olin until registration.”
“Really?” She asks as if she expects me to take it back.
I nod. “We’ll do this together, the three of us.”
“Come,” Centavo strides away, “there’s one more stop before tonight’s business is through.”
Zorrah’s stuff amounted to a spare change of clothes and a notebook. With her between me and Centavo, the three of us walk the dozen blocks to the abandoned apartment building next to the Shadows. The night is featureless, like thousands of others I’ve seen through the mesh of New Teo’s shield dome.
An invisible blanket of clouds hovers between me and the heavens, blocking out the stars. I’m grateful to replace the conditioned air of the government building with the dead-calm humidity.
Without thinking, I run my hand across the back of my head. For the first time, the absence of my braid is something less than shocking. It’s no less tragic, no less painful. It just is. One moment it had been there, the next it hadn’t.
Just like the guard. But when he left, where did he go? Where did I send him? If there is a signal, there’s a source. If there’s a source, their is a destination. Right?
Where is the place I am fighting so hard not to go? So hard I’m willing to send others there ahead of me?
The closer we get to the Shadows, the fewer lights are lit. The last block is nearly pitch black. I gaze upward toward where the ancient stone wall meets the dome, and I shiver. If any of the gods are real, I pray life isn’t a series of smaller and more terrifying prisons—one inside the other.
Lost in thought, I bump into Zorrah, causing her to drop her notebook. As it hits the pavement, loose pages scatter. “I’m sorry, Zorrah.” I slump to my knees and search for the stray sheets.
“No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have stopped.”
I find a page and hold it up. Even in the dark I can tell it’s a fight poster. Most of the girls in Worker City collect their favorites.
“It’s just that,” Zorrah finds a sheet and tucks it away, “I’ve never been this close.”
“You mean to the Shadows?”
“Yes.” After a short breath she continues. “What do you think it’s like?”
“Funny story, that.” I pick up the last piece of paper.
“How so?” Zorrah asks.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.” I hand her the pages. “Which fighter do you fancy?”
“What?”
“Who’s on the poster?” I help her up.
“Oh, I just found that one today. With the fight still two days away, I know I shouldn’t have taken it down, but I couldn’t help it.” Instantly she forgets all about the Shadows.
We start walking again. Centavo stands in the doorway of the abandoned building where we left Olin. “Well, are you going to tell me who it is?” I ask Zorrah.
“What? You mean you haven’t heard?”
“I’m afraid I was asleep most of the day.”
Her voice weakens. “Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Please, it’s nothing. But now you’ve got me dying to know.” We’ve nearly reached the doorway where Centavo waits.
“It’s the big fight, the one everybody’s been waiting for.”
My first thought can’t be right. “Wait, you mean—”
“I sure hope Nightmare Neca cleans the cage with that Yetic guy.” I freeze in my tracks. Zorrah grips my forearm. “Oh no, you think we’ll be able to go, don’t you?”
Centavo steps forward. “Zorrah, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait here for our return. We shouldn’t be gone long.”
She protests. “But I can’t—”
“You’ll find Calli’s brother, Olin, inside. I’m sure he’ll keep your company.” The old man takes Zorrah’s hand.
I back away, still flustered over the news of Neca fighting Yetic.
Centavo speaks gently to Zorrah, “That’s not the worst of it.”
“What do you mean?” She squeaks.
“I’m sure we’ll meet again but not for a long time. I’ve fulfilled my promise. I’m leaving you in good hands.” He hugs her.
“This is goodbye?”
“You’ve got the academy now. You won’t have time to think of a foolish old man.” Centavo sets her down and backs away. “Don’t worry, I’ll be waiting on the other side. I promise.”
What must sound comforting to Zorrah only sounds like a threat to me.
“Now go on, I’ve got to see to Calli Bluehair’s braid.”
Obediently, Zorrah shuffles through the doorway without looking back. Moments later, she calls softly for Olin.
I decide to tell Centavo he’ll have to wait for me to check on my brother. By the time I turn around, the old man is gone. I’m about to curse him and myself for ever believing he would help me, when I spot him moving swiftly toward the entrance to the Shadows.
“Let’s make this fast,” he calls over his shoulder. “We don’t have much time before Nahua suspects foul play in the disappearance of Huatiani. When he does, he’ll never believe the killer wasn’t me.”
“Why can’t we do it inside with the others?” I jog to catch up.
“Oh, I can’t grow your braid back, Calli Bluehair. Not unless I grow it on my own head.”
“I knew it, you shriveled sack of—”
He wags a finger. “There’s only one person for this job, and apparently you met her this morning.”
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