Blend, p.28
Blend, page 28
Em’s yellow eyes gleamed in the red glow.
“For the future,” Scar added.
“You can count on us, TimBob!” String spouted. “We’re your top ratworms, and we’ll get the job done. Then Deacon’s people will finish the spark-flow.”
TimBob appreciated the practical approach, but Scar not so much.
“When the fight starts, I’ll be on the front line with Deacon and the rest. My job don’t end today.”
TimBob answered with a reminder:
“It will if the bastards catch you, Scar. Every step’s gotta be click-true on the circuit. You flow with me?”
They nodded as one.
Then they dived into more details. Now all that remained? Fine-tuning the duties, last equipment prep, and a meal cooked in their food churn. They’d leave when Offante gave the agreed-upon signal.
Time to finish this session with some praise.
“The other Pikers be green-eyed, for true,” his voice low, though he doubted anyone was listening outside. “They all wanna roll as prime ratworms, too. But I tapped you three cause you the bravest spark-circuits I ever uplinked. So don’t get your wires crossed: We flow as one tonight. You hit a bad current, we come for you. No circuit gets cut from the mainframe. We adapt and we extract, feel my truth?”
He saw it in their eyes: Absolute faith in their leader. Trust in the plan. Courage to follow through. Yes, he was a good fringing general. And all self-taught. Well, mostly self-taught.
But what if it fell apart? TimBob knew little of war. As best anyone could find in the archives to which Blends had access, the last war on this planet took place two centuries ago. The Tets fought over food as it dwindled. Now they had plenty to fill their bellies to excess and weren’t about to share without a fight.
We made this happen for them. We’ll show them how to share.
But would this victory come at a price he dared not imagine? He loved his little revs, and they loved him. Could he tolerate the idea of some of them dying on his watch? Dying tonight?
He remembered Arliss Dubai’s words:
“Any spark you light is all the justification they need. Whatever you’re planning, the blowback will hit the entire Servo District. Starting with your Pikers.” And then: “Risk your own life, TimBob. But not my son.”
TimBob sent Emilie and Scar on their way but told Kip to stay behind.
“Something else I need to spark?” Kip asked.
“Yeah, String. Lots.”
He asked Kip to talk straight while they were alone. No cant.
“Do you have doubts about me, TimBob? I don’t have any. I know I can do this.”
“For true. You can.”
He wasn’t sure how to put it, so TimBob started with a question.
“Tell me something, String. You got two parents. Most of us got one or none. Why are you willing to go all the way for our lot?”
Confusion and doubt set in, or so TimBob assumed. Kip studied him and the question with a dumbfounded posture.
“I … but TimBob, do you got some worries still? Why you asking?”
“Because if we die, ain’t-a nobody going to remember us. But everybody knows the Dubais. Your Mum, she’s down here servo-slumming from the Wind Reader. And your Da? Anybody tries to get between him and you, they might be as good as dead. I …”
“What you saying?”
“You stand beside your Mum and Da, you’ll grow up safe and sound. Hang with us, you’re liable end up on Rogue like your Da. Or worse. So, why you willing to go all the way for us Pikers?”
Kip’s eyes darted down and around. He clasped his hands together and swayed until an answer emerged.
“I love my parents. Reckon they want the best for me. Mom’s taught me most of what I know, and Dad, he’s been trying real hard since he came home. But see … it’s not enough, TimBob. I got this feeling in my gut … it’s like an instinct … I feel like I’m meant for bigger. And I ain’t-a built to wait around. That make sense?”
In that moment, TimBob lamented that his parents never gave him a little brother. Surely, he would’ve been like Kip.
“You’re making more sense than you know, String. I’ve been on my own since I was eight. I knew I was meant for more. Tonight, I’m going to light the rebellion. It’s gonna start right here in my nest on L49. The world never saw me coming, but I did.
“Soon, I reckon they’ll see you, too. You are meant for bigger. I felt it the first day you joined us. Smallest rat except for Pixel, but your heart was so big. One of these days, you’ll have your own crew. You’ll be their general. What do you think about that?”
Kip wiped away his tears with the back of his hand.
“You’re the only one who ever understood me, TimBob.”
What should have been a celebratory moment, maybe the closest connection he’d made to a Piker since that first day with Scar, turned painful. His chest stiffened, a knot seeming to form where his pendant clung to his skin, as it had for eight years.
“This is why I got to do something difficult,” he told Kip. “I gotta give you the best shot at being bigger.”
TimBob felt the pendant telling him not to do this, that he was violating his mother’s last request. Yet he reached around his neck, grabbed hold of the chain, and lifted.
The pendant fought him but lost.
I ain’t-a giving you back to your Da, String, but you’re coming home alive.
TimBob handed over the necklace.
“It’s just for the mission, you see. Wear it under your mesh. It’ll keep you safe.”
Kip studied the pendant with the blue crystal in the center and returned it.
“I can’t. Is this your charm?”
“I laughed at Mum when she gave it to me. Lucky charm? Fringing stupid. But it’s kept me out of the thicket more than I can count. The jewel goes back centuries. I reckon there’s really something to it, after all. It didn’t wanna leave my neck. But now it’s going to be around yours. Just for the mission. I get it back tomorrow, when you’re free and clear.”
“But I …”
“That’s an order, my little rev. Put it on now, and don’t you say nothing out there. It’s between you and me.”
Arliss will fringing tear me apart if you die.
Kip complied. TimBob thought the pendant looked good him on the kid, although it was difficult to see behind the mesh bodysuit.
“How does it feel?”
Kip massaged his chest.
“It’s warm. Like … uh …”
“It’s alive?”
Kip nodded, perhaps daring not to consider the possibility.
“Let me tell you something, String. I crawled through every corner of Sinquin since my Mum’s death set me free. I learned a lot of slag, but I also got my hands on a few Tet readers. You ever heard the story about how we came to be?”
“You mean, the first generation?”
“Nah. I’m talking about the second. See, here’s how they say it went. There were these meddocs who thought creating Blends was a crime. Of course, they didn’t call us Blends back then. They said the Tets would be creating a whole race of slaves. Then there were other meddocs who said it was OK to create us, but only if we could live like real humans. That meant having families. Real kids, not out of tanks.
“So, they agreed to build the first gen with the same body particulars they had. Some meddocs figured it wouldn’t work. Too many synthetic parts. The servos would interfere with reproduction. I don’t know all the science. But they agreed on one thing: They’d design us so our women could have one child, then their parts would dry up. Guess what happened?”
Kip snickered.
“They kept having more kids.”
“Oh, yeah. And for a while, everybody was good with it because they needed millions of Blends to save their planet. But then something happened nobody reckoned was possible. I mean, they really thought it couldn’t happen.”
Kip’s eyes lit up.
“Tets and Blends got together.”
“And along come you lot. From what I hear, there ain’t-a but a hundred Patchies on Teton. Most of the Tets don’t know what to make of your kind. But a few years ago, when Scar and me were looking to expand this little kingdom, I took a real interest in Patchies. Know why?”
Kip shook his head.
TimBob realized the genuine risk in finishing this story, but if anyone deserved to hear it, Kip had earned the right.
“There’s a Blend meddoc on L38. Deacon uses him from time to time. See, this meddoc has a Tet contact in Trequin. They been studying the Patchie matrix. Last I heard, they ain’t-a come to no final conclusions … something about not having a large enough sample size in the city. But this meddoc says there’s something special in the Patchie matrix. He thinks it has to do with adaptability. Something he says Tets and Blends don’t have.”
“Like what?”
TimBob shrugged.
“That’s the mystery, my little rev. I just reckoned you oughta know because whatever it is, you feel it in your blood already. Maybe you and Em and all the others are meant for bigger. What we do tonight’s going to get you closer to having a chance to figure it out.”
Kip was silent for a long, contemplative moment. TimBob gave him the space to consider the implications. Sure, it was possible this whole business was no more than a fairy tale.
“Thank you, TimBob. The day you found me changed my life. Thank you.”
“Do good tonight, and we’re all square. Head on out now.”
Kip crawled toward the entrance, but TimBob realized he wasn’t done.
“Oh, and something else you oughta know. The pendant has a name. Piker.”
That was enough for now. Maybe too much.
TimBob remained on his mat and closed his eyes, lost in the contemplation of what lay ahead and the riskiest gesture he’d ever made.
Two urns later, he led the Pikers from the nest. On the journey upward through the Mega, neither he nor any of his little revolutionaries ran into the father who had threatened to tear the district apart.
Soon after, they ignited the first spark.
14
KIP
ONEurn INTO THE MISSION, Kip's fingers trembled as he worked the storage slot at the L103 maintenance junction. The mechanism clicked, and the Glide unfolded from the wall like a metal flower – black metallic mesh above a titanium base. His heart thumped rapid-fire as he watched Em and Scar prepare their own boards.
The fusion core hummed beneath their feet, its vibrations from one level below rippling through the metal grating of the crosswalk. Sweat beaded on Kip’s neck. The heat was manageable here, his thousands of minuscule flush sacs – seen by everyone else as blue freckles – were unbothered. But his nerves took control.
“Retros,” he said.
Scar pulled out four sets of miniature thrusters from inside his well-stocked jacket. Kip caught the pair tossed his way, mounting them on the corners of his Glide. The magnetic locks snapped into place with satisfying clicks. His hands moved through the motions, but his mind raced ahead to what waited at Level 130.
Em attached thrusters not only to her Glide but to a fourth, which remained folded when she strapped it to her back. He admired her for taking on the extra load, but she was also the only one not wearing a jacket stuffed with tools, comm devices, and jammers. She caught his eye and nodded. No words needed. This would not be their first time riding the heat ducts.
The last time they spoke, only minups before the Pikers left the nest, Kip and Em found a private spot. In between kisses – he did not want them to end – Kip found the courage to say what his heart demanded.
“I love you.”
Em kissed him back then trapped Kip in those alluring yellow eyes. He expected the same three words in return, but she confused him.
“We’re too young to know what love is, String.”
“I don’t need to level up to know what I feel, spark-true. Do you flow me back, Em?”
She petted his face then pressed her forehead against his.
“We’re just booting up, String. We got cycles ahead. It’s too soon to talk about the heart.”
But what were those words they shared about someday having children together? Wasn’t that proof? Kip wanted to know, but Em puckered up and locked her sugary sweet lips onto his. She did not release until Scar called out for final assembly. They did not speak of it on the way up the Mega, not with team-leader Scar at their side.
Their wrist pads crackled with updates from the other Pikers, now scattered anywhere between L100 and L130.
“Ghost team in position.” “Wrench team ready.” “Zero starting the system baffles.”
Kip checked his own wrist pad’s display. The thermal currents blazed red on the schematic, indicating optimal lift conditions. In moments, they’d ride those currents up twenty-seven levels through a central tube designed to be traversed only in the direst of emergencies.
Reality struck Kip like a broadside blow. This was about more than a heist. Three kids on Glides were about to change the world.
Focus. Remember what TimBob taught you.
Kip passed out utility gloves, and Scar handed out the heat-resistant hoods with cooling fabric. When the awkward contraption improvised by Wrench settled over his head, Kip felt encased him in a tiny, suffocating prison, same as when they rehearsed this moment back in the nest. He repositioned the faceplate and breathing tube until the weight shifted to a reasonable balance. Scar attached the filtration loop around Kip’s neck. When Scar finished, Kip returned the favor and completed Em’s setup.
He settled into a new breathing routine, the narrow oxygen tube snaking into his nose. Not until everyone signaled thumbs-up did they contemplate the next move.
Scar took point into the transition room, where they carried their Glides. Em pressed the red button that shut the cage-like door behind. They flipped up the safety bars on their single-rider Glides and took position on the narrow boards. They activated the flat row of buttons that controlled Glide hover, lift, lateral flight, and descent. A low growl whispered from a flat panel beneath each board.
The Glides rose a few eens off the floor.
“Lights,” Scar said, and they tapped on the porta-lamps attached at the collar of their hoods.
Above them, heat from the fusion core intercepted at a Y-junction then traveled up the Mega in pulsating waves. The vertical tube, three units wide and dark as the night, gave no hint of distance other than lights that rose in a rigid line at the service hatches.
“Flow true,” Scar said.
“Flow true,” Kip and Em said in unison.
Here we go. It’s fringing for real!
They rose in a triangle formation, expecting to feel a sudden burst of hot wind coming at them from two sides. The trick there: Hold tight to the bar and allow the Glide to ride the first wave. That initial surge was the most dangerous part of the journey but also the most exhilarating. One mistake, and they’d slam into the tube walls at lethal speed. Afterward, the fusion core’s energy would launch them up like corks from a bottle.
Kip’s wrist pad buzzed again. Zero’s voice, all business:
“Diversion starts in thirty. We compromised their systems.”
Everyone was in place. This was it. No turning back.
The thought should have terrified Kip; rather, a strange calm settled over him. This is my place, my purpose. You’ll be proud of me, Mom and Dad.
Scar raised three fingers. Then two. One.
The thermal current caught them, and Kip’s stomach lurched as they shot upward into the darkness. They banked and twisted through the vertical shoot, riding the heat like surfers on an invisible wave.
Level 110 ... 115 ... 120 ...
Kip kept his knees bent, body loose, adjusting minute changes in balance. The cargo Glide strapped to Em’s back caught the light as she weaved alongside.
Voices cackled from the other teams; TimBob’s diversion had begun. How long it lasted – or if EQ fell for any of it – remained a mystery but also not their concern. Scar, leading the way, told Kip to fire the additional retros they added for greater control.
“Don’t want to overshoot,” he said.
Kip, who had strapped the remote to his wrist beside the live comm, tapped once for a gentle counterforce. Hissing erupted from the three active Glides.
As they neared the target hatch, they passed each level at a slower pace.
Kip’s wrist pad vibrated again. Zero’s voice cut through, clearer now:
“EQ slags converging on Ghost team. Wrench reports slag patrols dispersing on L130.”
The update sounded positive, seeming to follow the plan.
Level 125 flashed past. The shaft narrowed a touch, forcing them closer together. That narrowing would continue to its terminus point at L132.
Em’s cargo Glide clipped the wall, sending sparks through the darkness. She recovered without missing a beat, but Kip had to ask.
“You true, Em?”
“Good and true, String.”
He wanted to add: I love you, and I got you. But that sentiment differed from the one needed in this moment.
Level 130 loomed above them, the access hatch a dark circle beneath the glow of a single service light. Kip added a touch more power to the retros, settling in alongside Em as Scar navigated to a hover position mere eens from the hatch.
Now for the trickiest bit so far. Though Kip had ridden the ducts many times, he never attempted anything like what this next step required. He pulled his Glide alongside Scar, who grabbed the safety handle and tugged until the two tiny transports tapped together. The boards bobbed in the updraft but kept a level plane. Kip nodded, his mouth dry, when he set his Glide to hover mode.
Scar reached inside his jacket and retrieved the pipe-gnasher, a heavy wrench twenty eens long. Kip waited until Scar found his proper balance and the angle he’d need to work from. Scar positioned the pipe-gnasher onto the central hitch valve, its teeth biting into the thick metal.
“On three,” Scar said, stabilizing his board against the tube wall. “One ... two ...”
Kip took the first step, not having to worry about falling through a gap. Rather, the sudden shift in weight might destabilize both Glides, sending his up and Scar’s down. If they stumbled or lost control, one or both could lose their grip. They did not want to test the proposition that the strong updraft might slow their fall enough to prevent certain death.
