Blend, p.6
Blend, page 6
Em’s yellow eyes narrowed.
“Neural contraction. Pain. Mod glitches.” Her voice hardened. “They’re keeping our people sick, String. They got a word: Leverage.”
Kip’s stomach tightened. He thought of his father’s hollow eyes. Was he suffering from neural contraction?
“String, you’re lookout,” Em continued, pulling him back to the present. “Watch the north and the sky-bridges. Any Q-flow movement, you flash-sign.” She demonstrated a quick hand gesture. “Two fingers to the trouble. Closed fist for drones.”
Kip nodded, disappointed but determined not to show it. Lookout was entry level, but essential. Everyone started somewhere.
“Next op, you’ll carry the gig with me,” Em added, as if reading his thoughts. Her fingers brushed his arm. “This is just your provin’ run.”
She turned back to her wrist pad.
“When Zero drops the sig, Scar’s gonna burn some noise down at the south proc-stat. Once the null-jacks scramble, we got seven ticks-tocks to jack those cases and vent through the east tubes with some rich scrapings.”
Kip positioned himself at the edge of the platform, eyes scanning the facility below. The workers focused on their tasks; none set eyes on the maintenance levels. Why would they? These passages were too narrow for adults, designed for drone access and emergency repairs.
Time stretched and contracted at once. Kip’s enhanced senses inherited from his father registered every detail with crystalline clarity.
The slight vibration of the platform beneath his feet.
The faint ozone smell of the cargo processing equipment.
The rhythmic thud of his heart.
“Slag it,” Em suddenly whispered, tension threading through her voice. “Drone patrol. Early.”
Kip spotted three crablike security drones gliding above the massive cargo floor, their sensor arrays sweeping the area. Standard EQ models, but with upgraded visual processors to detect unauthorized personnel.
“They’re not supposed to be here for twenty,” Em hissed into her communicator. “Zero, we got drones.”
The communicator crackled.
“Can’t loop the drone feeds remotely. Need direct access.”
“Abort?” Scar asked.
Em hesitated, her eyes fixed on the medical containers.
“Fring that! Keep it low and safe. We’re jacking those meds.”
The drones continued their patrol, moving closer to where Scar, Zero, and a handful of other Pikers had positioned themselves near the south loading zone. Kip watched their sensor lights blink from green to yellow; they detected something unusual.
After a sudden revelation, Kip reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and pulled out the altered communication jammer he’d built from salvaged parts and had intended to show off to the Pikers. He first designed it to disrupt roving EdBank attendance deputies, but with a few adjustments.
“What the fring is that?” Em whispered.
“Frequency disruptor,” Kip explained, fingers recalibrating the device. “Can glitch their sensors, overload their feedback. Blind them for two minups.”
Em’s eyes widened. She did not respond with the gratefulness Kip expected.
“You brought homebody tech without clearing through TimBob?”
True, he violated Piker protocol. They weren’t meant to do jobs with their own homemade concoctions unless TimBob and Zero cleared it. Kip didn’t want to admit the truth: He had stowed the device in his jacket without regard for the rules and forgot about it after TimBob arrived at the nest then launched into a tirade.
“Always come wired.” Kip muttered one of his mom’s favorite mottos. He focused on the dials. The device hummed in his palm as he targeted the drones’ frequency range. “How else we gonna jack those cases?”
He activated the jammer. Below, the drones faltered mid-flight, their sensor arrays flashing between green and red as they processed the conflicting data. They hovered in place, running diagnostic protocols then scattered.
“Now!” Em hissed into her wrist pad.
The distraction erupted simps later: A thunderous bang simulated a catastrophic explosion, the sound reverberating through the entire loading bay like a bomb had detonated. The shock wave sent hundreds of metallic components tumbling from the overhead conveyor loops, which shook out-of-balance thanks to Zero’s always effective but illegal pulse exaggerator. Components rained down in a chaotic waterfall of technology, scattering across the loading dock with a symphony of clangs, pings, and scrapes that echoed through the cavernous facility.
Small circuit boards skittered across the smooth surface while heavier power cores thudded and bounced with hollow, resonant booms. Workers rallied to contain the spreading disaster, shouting frantic instructions to each other as they scrambled to salvage the most valuable parts first.
The conveyor loops ground to an emergency stop; all eyes focused on the mess. Forty units behind them, the medical supply trunks waited to be snatched.
Em was already moving, descending toward the cargo floor with accomplished stealth. Kip maintained his position, jammer in hand, watching as Scar emerged from his hiding place and headed for the medical containers. Zero appeared moments later, moving with less grace but equal determination.
Sixty simps until the drones escaped his jammer.
Kip counted in his head, eyes darting between the workers focused on the distraction, the confused drones, and Pikers approaching the target. Everything was proceeding according to plan. Now.
Fifty simps.
Scar reached the containers first, signaling to Zero. Together they opened two trunks, lifting them with enhanced strength. Em arrived simps later. The other Pikers kept watch on the escape routes. Kip saw at least three silver cases inside each trunk.
Forty simps.
The workers were organizing themselves, the initial chaos subsiding. One drone appeared to be recovering, its lights stabilizing between green and yellow. Had he overestimated the jamming sequence?
Kip maintained faith in his ability.
Thirty simps.
Scar, Zero, and Em moved toward the exit point. Scar and Zero carried two cases each; Em carried the fifth.
Twenty simps.
The recovering drone turned, its sensors sweeping toward the medical containers. It would detect the theft any moment.
Kip decided in an instant. He scrambled down from his lookout position, heart pounding. No sense leaving a case behind.
“String! No!”
He heard Em’s voice whisper through the comm but didn’t see her. No matter. He was committed. He lost sight of the drone but increased the jammer’s output. Kip sprinted toward the remaining case. The device grew hot in his hand; he needed a few more simps.
Kip reached the container, fingers closing around its handles. Heavier than he expected, but manageable. Then he saw the nearest drone, wobbling and confused.
“String! Exit route crimped!” Em’s voice crackled through the communicator.
Kip looked up to see his fellow Pikers disappearing through a different maintenance tube than planned. The security alert triggered: Flashing lights and a low, pulsing alarm that would soon bring enforcers running.
“I’m a ghost,” he responded, but static was his only answer. Either the communicator died, or the signal was blocked.
No matter. He was on his own.
With the case clutched against his chest, Kip ran for the nearest exit; an emergency ladder would take him down two levels. The jammer in his hand sputtered and died, its circuits fried. So much for show-and-tell with the group. Behind him, the drone’s sensors reactivated, its alarm joining the facility’s security alert.
Kip scrambled down the ladder one-handed, the case banging against his shins with each rung. He emerged into a corridor he didn’t recognize: Sterile white walls with none of the exposed pipes and wiring of Servo District passages.
He was in Tetonian territory with stolen medical supplies and no clear path home.
The alarm continued its rhythmic pulse, joined now by the sound of boots on metal flooring, enforcers responding to the breach. Kip ducked into a narrow service passage, his mind racing. He needed to find his way back to familiar territory, but he knew they’d watch every public route.
The case grew heavier with each step, its contents shifting. Meds that his people needed. Maybe meds to help his father? He clutched it tighter and moved deeper into unfamiliar territory.
Kip toughened his grip on the medical case as he crawled through a maze of shafts and envirotubes. In time, the polished architecture of Tetonian territory gave way to grimy metal conduits, but he still wasn’t home free. The stolen case banged against his hip, becoming more burdensome with each passingminup.
Down, then south. Down, then south.
He repeated the mantra in his head, trying to orient himself in the Mega’s labyrinthine infrastructure. No one responded on the comm. The other Pikers no doubt had their own issues to navigate. Had they made it back to safe territory with their cases, or had the whole thing gone to slag? Was Em worried about him?
Sweat trickled down his spine as he squeezed through a narrow junction where two ventilation shafts intersected. Unlike most kids his age, tight spaces never bothered him. Mom said he was built like his father: Compact and efficient.
A blast of scalding steam erupted from a nearby pipe, filling the shaft with stifling heat. Kip hardly flinched. While he hadn’t inherited his father’s full suite of mods, he possessed heat resistance. Temperatures that would scald normal Tetonians turned Kip’s skin pink, his freckles regulating his body temperature as flush sacs.
His mother explained it when he was still a tot: “Your father was designed to work in environments the native humans can’t tolerate. That’s in your blood now, even if you don’t have his synthetic mods.”
Kip paused at another junction and listened. The distant clang of boots against metal flooring suggested enforcers were still searching, but the sound came from far above.
Good. They hadn’t figured out how to track him.
After an urn of careful navigation, which sometimes included waiting for his path to clear, Kip slid into a vertical shaft, bracing his back against one wall and his feet against the other, the stolen case tucked under one arm as he descended inch by careful inch. His muscles burned with the effort, but he didn’t dare rush. A fall from this height would break bones, Patchie resilience or not.
The shaft opened into a larger maintenance corridor that hummed with the vibration of nearby machinery. Kip allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. He recognized this section: An old coolant regulation tunnel that ran beneath the Market Strip. He’d navigated these passages during Piker training runs, memorizing every twist and turn while Scar timed him with merciless precision.
“You’re too slow, String,” Scar had said after his first attempt. “Gotta flow like water through these tunnels.”
Kip had practiced until he navigated the entire section blindfolded. Now that training paid off.
He made his way through increasingly familiar territory. The case grew heavier, his arms aching from the strain, but the thought of returning as a victor kept him moving. He imagined TimBob’s approving nod, the respect in Scar’s eyes, Em’s smile … that special one she seemed to reserve just for him.
“String brought back the sixth case,” she’d tell the others. “Knew he had the spark-flow.”
Maybe she’d even kiss him this time. The thought sent a flush of heat through his body that had nothing to do with the steam-filled corridor.
Finally, he reached a ventilation junction that overlooked a seldom-used service corridor near the northern perimeter of the Market Strip.
Yeah, right. I know this one. The fringing way out!
Rollo’s Nutrient Stand wasn’t far away. Through the slats, he saw familiar dingy walls and yellow glow.
Safety. Home.
He mapped out a direct route to the nest some twenty levels down.
Kip peered through the vent, checking for enforcers or drones. The corridor appeared empty. He pried the vent loose with deliberate fingers and prepared to drop down, the case clutched firm against his chest.
Almost there. Almost home.
He lowered himself through the opening, hanging by his fingertips before dropping in silence to the floor below. His knees bent to absorb the impact, the case clutched against his chest.
He was halfway to standing when he heard movement behind him.
Kip spun around, prepared to bolt, but froze when he recognized the man in the sickly yellow light.
The fring?
His father stood ten units away, back to Kip as he examined the corridor wall with unusual intensity. Arliss’s servo-enhanced fingers traced patterns across the metal surface while a small device in his other hand emitted a thin red beam that danced upon the wall.
Kip’s pulse quickened. Before he could decide whether to run or hide, his father spun around, the red beam from his device illuminating Kip’s face.
“Son?” Arliss’s eyes widened at Kip’s disheveled appearance, and most damning, the case clutched in his hands.
“What are you doing here?” they asked together, the question hanging in the steam-filled air between them.
3
MEERA
THE DRILL WHINED as it bit through the last of the corroded pipe, sending a shower of sparks cascading over Meera's protective gear. Twenty units beneath the Mega's ground level, her crew worked in near darkness, their headlamps carving bright tunnels through the perpetual gloom. The massive water induction system, a cathedral of pipes, pumps, and pressure valves, surrounded them like the skeleton of an ancient beast.
“Pressure’s dropping in Junction Six,” Meera called out, her voice steady despite the deafening rumble of the pumps. “Janu, seal the auxiliary before we flood the subroutes.”
Janu Kreager flashed a thumbs-up, his light blue skin glistening with sweat. His chest expanded as he prepared to dive into the water-filled induction tube to adjust valves, a skill for which his modified lungs suited him.
“On it, domo,” he shouted back, twisting his body into position at the hatch.
Meera focused on the schematic outlined on her tablet. The ancient water purification system drew from deep aquifers beneath the city, filtering the mineral-heavy liquid through progressive chambers before pumping it upward into the Mega’s intricate and oft-improvised networks.
“Pass me the plasma torch,” she told Kenya, a young Blend woman. “This junction needs reinforcement before we restart the flow.”
The blue flame of the torch cut through metal with surgical precision as Meera sealed the repair. Water was life in Vandress, and her team kept it flowing, even if Tetonians pretended not to notice who maintained their precious systems.
Meera focused on the welding torch, its flame dancing across the seam in exacting fashion.
“Watch this,” she told Kenya, who stood beside her with wide eyes. “The key is maintaining consistent pressure. Too much and you’ll blow through the erasite casing.”
Kenya nodded, studying Meera’s technique.
“I’ve never seen anyone weld that smoothly.”
“Time and practice.” Meera completed the final section with a flourish. “Your turn now. Remember what I showed you about the angle.”
Meera handed the torch to Kenya, who took it with trembling hands. This was the woman’s first foray into the bowels of the induction system.
“Don’t worry. You’ve got good instincts for this.”
“I’m nervous,” the Blend admitted, adjusting her grip.
“That’s normal. Start slow and find your rhythm.” Meera watched as the woman welded. “There you go. You’re a natural.”
She was also too new to be toiling down here, but Meera had little choice. Farris didn’t want his most precious domo working the substrata junctions. The boss never said it straightaway, but Meera knew: He was feeling outside pressure to pull her back from the most dangerous jobs. If word got out that the daughter of a Wind Reader was working in subterranean confines …
As Kenya gained confidence, Meera stepped back.
“I’ll let you finish this next section. The rest of the job is yours.”
Meera checked the pressure gauge and nodded with satisfaction. The team had almost finished; another emergency repair completed without disruption to water service. Residents of the Mega would never know how close they’d come to dry taps this morning. Same could have been said at least twenty times in the past quarter.
“Final sequence looks good,” she called out.
Relief settled in at a successful job, which allowed her focus to drift. She tried all morning to stow the pain, but last night still haunted her.
Five years of waiting, of imagining their reunion, collapsed into awkward silence and separate sides of the bed. Arliss had returned from Offante’s shop looking shaken, distracted. When she asked what happened, he stared straight through her and mumbled something about being exhausted.
She’d prepared his favorite light-night snack: Synthetic protein cubes marinated in spices she set in cold store for months, but Arliss picked at one cube, offering no commentary.
“Everything okay?” She reached for his hand across their tiny kitchen table.
He flinched at her touch, then forced a puny smile.
“It’s an adjustment.”
She’d envisioned this night, their bodies rediscovering each other, whispered confessions, tears of relief. Instead, Arliss retreated to the shower, staying in there long after his water allotment severed. When he finally came to bed, he lay rigid beside her, staring at the ceiling.
“Arliss,” she whispered, “I missed you so much.”
“Missed you too, Meercat.”
His words fell flat.
When she moved closer, her hand touching his chest, he covered it with his own but did not pull her tight. His skin felt icy beneath her fingers.
“We should sleep,” he said. “Long day tomorrow. You start early, and I need to look for a job.”
