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  “So you are awake!” he exclaims, holding his hands out to the fake sky as though praising a miracle. I open my eyes completely and haul myself to a seated position, ignoring the black spots in my vision and cringing at the small tears in my vintage leather pants. “Whoa, be careful now,” he says, reaching a hand out to help me, “you should probably go see a doctor or something.”

  I ignore his gesture and brush off the dirt. Maybe it would be different if this didn’t happen as often as it does. Maybe I should see somebody, but therein lies the catch: as soon as I swipe my ID card, the Corp knows where to find me. Better to deal with cash and the underground and stay hidden.

  “I’m alright, I just forgot to have breakfast this morning,” I mutter in response as if it explains anything. I plant my hands firmly on the ground and attempt to hoist myself to standing, but vertigo catches up with me and I fall awkwardly back to the street.

  “Here, let me help you,” the guy says, his tone firmer, less lazy. Begrudgingly I accept his hand and he easily lifts me off the ground, holding me steady until I’ve gained my balance. This close to him I see that he has soft blue eyes hidden beneath his messy fringe. His angular nose is brushed with freckles that contrast with his paleness and his lips are full and pink. He’s cute.

  “I’ll be okay, really,” I say, though in reality my head’s still spinning. I can’t tell him that this happens to me more often than I’ll ever admit. He edges away as soon as I’m steady, and there’s a glimmer of mirth in his eyes. Oddly enough it steals a smile from me, like he’s sharing a secret joke with his gaze.

  “Well then,” he says, placing his hands in the pockets of his black jeans and rocking back on his heels, “why don’t you come out for coffee with me?”

  “Are you serious?” I sputter. I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out whether or not he’s messing with me. In these parts you never really know. He laughs softly.

  “Why not?” It’s not every day I find a pretty girl passed out on the street who brushes herself like it’s nothing. Call me intrigued,” he says. I honestly consider it for a moment, thrown off by his brazenness. I’m not usually a fly-by-the-pants kind of girl; I like structure and order. Names, handshakes and conversations about the weather are supposed to come before coffee. I remember the time and shake my head wistfully no.

  “I wish I could, but I’ve got places to be right now,” I reply. He grins off handedly, lips crooked.

  “That’s too bad, Red. You sure I can’t walk you anywhere?”

  “I’m okay, really. And don’t call me Red,” I scold, self-consciously stroking my hair.

  “Then what should I call you, when I do?” he asks playfully. This time I can’t help but smile, embarrassed to the point of blushing.

  “Piper,” I reply.

  “See you around then, Red,” he says, then spins on his heel with a wave and disappears into the crowded streets. I watch him as that small smile dances on my lips. I didn’t even get his name.

  Just as I’m about to jam my key into the lock of my shabby, paint-peeled apartment building door I realize that half my stock of Ten is gone.

  Chapter Three

  I trudge up the stairs to the fourth floor walk-up I share with best friend Shelley, unable to get the mystery stranger out of my head. My primary thoughts ask questions like how he managed to lift a hundred and fifty pills from me without my noticing. The other areas of my mind linger on the subtle laughter in his gaze and his awkward yet confident swagger. I kind of wish I’d gotten his name.

  When I reach the paint-chipped door of my apartment I find it leaning open a crack, which can only mean that Shelley’s home. I push it open and shut it behind me, gladly inhaling the fresh indoor scent of purified air. As usual the place is in shambles. Clothing both clean and dirty drapes the old sofa and chairs about the living room. Half-attempted cleanings leave only stacks of cans in corners and about six months’ worth of Elder Corp Daily News, half their pages cut out and posted on various bulletin boards. The most popular selection is articles about the jobs of the resistance, edited though they might be to shield the truth.

  I toss my boots into the entrance closet and my bag to the floor as I plop onto the couch. Even with torn stitches and fluff sticking out every which way, I sink into it like soft sand. Shelley peels out of her bedroom and stands before me, hands on her hips. Her deep auburn hair is perfectly braided and she’s dressed in a new concoction of shiny pink anti-radiation equipment.

  “What do you think?” she asks, twirling for effect. The fabric, I already know, is a lightweight and breathable Lycra. She has on her patented rad-mask—similar to a thin bandana covering her nose and mouth and nearly invisible goggles slotted over her eyes. I suppress the urge to giggle.

  “How was your day, would be a better place to start,” I reply briefly. She huffs an impatient sigh.

  “I’ve been charged with designing a new and modern version of the Rad Gear Suit, Piper. It needs to be colorful,” she protests.

  “But does it need to be pink? You look like one of those Power Rangers or something,” I say only to receive a scowl.

  “Not everyone wants to wear black all the time,” she says.

  “And not everyone despises pink, but you should probably take visibility into account. Even without Harpy eyesight I bet I could spot you right away,” I counter. She pauses in concentration, looking as if she’s about to stomp her feet.

  “I hate it when you’re right,” she mutters. A knock sounds at the door and I stretch my legs out so my feet rest on the coffee table, laughing as she scowls and answers the door complete in her cotton candy getup. When she opens it a very handsome guy is waiting. I glance over, certain my best friend’s cheeks match the suit she’s wearing. The guy is dressed simply in dark jeans and a logo t-shirt that seems vaguely familiar. Shelley invites him in and directs him to the cleanest armchair in the living room.

  “I just need to change. I’ll be right back,” she says, disappearing into her room. Her boy fiddles his thumbs a little nervously, glancing around the apartment with a false curiosity.

  “So, umm, I’m Piper, Shells’ roommate,” I say after an extended and awkward silence.

  “Craig,” the guy responds, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Hopefully all good things?” I ask. He chuckles and nods. Ice broken.

  “She thinks you’re a badass but that you need more fashion intuition,” he says. This time I laugh.

  “She’s been giving me that one for years,” I reply. Shelley bounds out of her room, this time in a slouchy tank top, jean shorts and lace tights. Her hair is tied tightly into a bouncy ponytail on the top of her head.

  “I trust you’ve acquainted yourselves?” she asks with feigned elegance. We both nod and she drops herself onto the couch right beside Craig’s chair, close enough to be flirty but without coming on too strong. The girl would be a romantic genius if it wasn’t for her constant belief that one day she’ll find true love. I don’t need to elaborate on my thoughts of the topic. I snap at her to get her attention.

  “I’ve got some friends coming over in a bit, Shells,” I say, signaling with my eyes that my “friends” are my runners—the deadbeats that distribute the Ten, of which I am now short. Shelley nods quickly and takes Craig by the hand, pulling him from the chair.

  “We’re going out anyway. Trust me, you don’t want to meet her friends,” she adds to him.

  “Shelley!” I protest. She winks, making me roll my eyes in annoyance.

  “They’re just super boring. Can you snag us a cab and I’ll be down in a minute?” she finishes. Craig nods.

  “No problem. Nice to meet you Piper!” he calls as he exits. As soon as the echoes of his footsteps fade away Shelley turns to face me seriously.

  “Tor dropped by,” she says. My heart drops and the color drains from my skin.

  Tor.

  I scan the articles and plans tacked onto the walls.

  “Did he see this?” I a
sk. Tor’s an Ace with the Corp, just like I was. He’s loyal to the bone and wouldn’t hesitate to have some old friends arrested, even if one of them happens to be his ex-girlfriend.

  “He called first,” Shelley replies. She lights the tiny stub of a cigarette, waving the billowing smoke from her face. “I had just enough time to hide it all. He’s still an Elder dog, but he knows you’re here. He wants to see you,” she continues.

  “What did you tell him?” I ask. There’s no point in avoiding him now. If he knows I’m here nothing can stop him from finding me, and there’s nowhere else I can go. It’s been over a year. Is this personal or professional? Either makes me grimace. Shelley snags a scrap of paper from the coffee table and scribbles out an address.

  “Meet him here at seven. Don’t be late, Piper, or he’s going to come knocking at my door and if he finds out I’m a mole the Corp is going to…” she trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish. We both know what Elder Corp is capable of. I place a reassuring hand on hers.

  “I’ll be there, don’t worry. Craig’s probably waiting for you, so you should go,” I say. She nods and smiles, though I can tell there’s still worry beneath it, like she’s still not sure whether or not I’m actually going to go.

  “He’s in a band, you know, Craig. Chaos Strikes. You should come to their show with me tomorrow, maybe meet a boy,” she says.

  My eyes roll on their own. “You drive me insane. And just so you know, I did meet a boy. This morning,” I say, instantly regretting it as her eyes light up.

  “What? Where?” she exclaims.

  “On the street. He stole my merchandise,” I mutter. I check my watch, trying to hint to Shells subtly that she needs to leave. To my relief she scoffs and throws on a chic black jacket.

  “Do not get involved with another user, Piper, please, for my sake. I can’t always be around to pick up the pieces,” she says.

  “I take offense to that, you know,” I reply.

  “Just come tomorrow,” she says firmly, then rushes out of the apartment, shutting the door behind her.

  I inhale deeply. Alone, finally. I quickly scan the apartment, throwing away any of the garbage still scattered about. I seal my remaining Ten in separate bags just as the door shudders from repeated pounding.

  “Come in!” I call. The door swings open and a figure steps into the living room. I poke my head in from the kitchen door to find the lithe, ethereal figure of Darcy, my main runner. Her hair hangs long and straight, forming a silhouette around her face with strands of ashen-blond that’s almost grey. Her blue eyes shine, bringing out the splatter of freckles over her nose. She’s the perfect runner because no one would ever suspect her. The quieter I can keep this operation, the better.

  She perches on the couch, hands placed lightly in her lap. Even at her most serene those eyes are fierce.

  “I’m just going to be a sec, and I have some bad news. Do you want a drink?” I ask. She wriggles her hands together, obviously bothered. That’s the thing with Tenners, even the idea of being short is enough to incite a level of hysteria.

  “You got any vodka?” she calls back. Ouch. She’s not happy. I pour her a drink of the real stuff, a splash of non-artificial vodka that cost me an arm and a leg, then bring it along with the little bags and place all of it on the coffee table. She swigs the glass back like it’s a shot and scans the bags, counting in her head. Her eyes scroll back and forthagain, counting twice just to make sure.

  “You’re a hundred fifty short,” she states, “I need three hundred.”

  I take a seat in the one uninjured armchair across from her.

  “I got mugged in the street by a guy with messy hair, pale, cute—maybe you know him?” I ask. It’s less a question than a threat. Never let the middle man think they have control. That’s how you keep yourself safe. She tries to act as if she doesn’t know him, but a simple flash of her eyes betrays her. Years of Corp interrogation training works to my advantage. I raise my eyebrows in expectation.

  “I know him, but I didn’t set it up if that’s what you’re implying,” she says, “but he’s my biggest client so I can go after him for the money.” Her tone is almost apologetic. Almost.

  “I want fifteen hundred up front. You sort out the remainder with him, then. We’ve got a deal?” I ask, keeping eye contact. She sighs as she pulls wrinkled bills from her pockets and sticks them on the table.

  “You’re a tough one, Madden, I’ll give you that. Same time next week?” she asks. I nod as she deftly slips the bags into the many pockets of her khaki jacket. It’s cute. I make a mental note to mention the design to Shelley. I spin until my legs are hanging over the side of the chair.

  “Let me ask you, Darcy. What’s the appeal in all of this? People are willing to pay twenty bucks a tab for this shit. Enlighten me,” I say. A glimmer shines across the girl’s eyes. She leans forward, hands rubbing together like she’s getting ready to tell a secret.

  “You ever feel so bad, so shitty and depressed and hopeless, so angry and out of control you’d do anything for it to stop?” she asks.

  David’s face appears in my mind. Before everything, when he still wore that infectious grin.

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  She replaces her hands on her lap. It’s as if we’re comrades now, both fighting the same war. Maybe we are.

  “Regular use of Ten makes that all go away. All of that pain, that anguish, gone in ten little minutes. In our world, why wouldn’t anyone want that?” she says.

  I can only nod my head, not wanting to rebut. A soldier must be strong. A soldier should feel none of these feelings, even if a teammate is killed, even if that someone is your brother. But I still feel it. I like to think it’s the last shred of humanity left in me. I glance at the clock and realize I have to get ready for this meeting with Tor. Darcy takes the hint and stands. We shake hands as we always do, mine rough and calloused while hers the silken smooth of hands never exposed to hard labor.

  “One more thing,” she says before releasing my grip, “That guy, the one who stole from you? Stay away from him if you know what’s good for you,” she finishes, then turns on her heel and struts out the door. That guy.

  I have the feeling she knows him much better than she lets on. Maybe they were lovers. Flashes of his crooked grin invade my brain. I shut my eyes and count slowly back from ten, then open them. Quiet, messy apartment, not a soul around but me.

  Before I hop in the shower, already dreading the chlorine stink of purified water, I check the address on the note Shelley’s left me and grimace:

  It’s above ground.

  Chapter Four

  Avoid the Harpy Threat, Live in an underground Elder compound. Safe, secure and radiation free—guaranteed.

  The thing about Harpies is you can’t tell what they are until you’re being torn apart and eaten alive. Years of evolution have allowed them to keep their identities secret. In the times just after the war they’d cut holes in their backs, their rapid cell regeneration covering their folded wings. Now it’s evolved into just another skill to add to the list.

  For years the eyes were a problem, these incredibly bright eyes that glowed in the dark, but as science reinvented itself, so sprouted some of the simpler inventions of the past, like colored contact lenses. It was almost too easy. The Elder touters, those hard-core fundamentalist preachers, praise Elder Corp like rabid dogs, thanking the Hunters for protecting humanity from those monstrous Harpies. But it’s really not that simple. Hunters aren’t super-human. Sure, our reflexes are faster and our eyes are sharper, but the real difference is in the blood. In Hunters exists a Harpy allergen, which left alone would leave the enemy with a bloody nose and a sore stomach, but, augmented in labs all throughout the Elder Empire, that blood becomes a weapon, the only way to make a sure-fire kill.

  I never said Hunters were perfect, powerful beings. Even I’ve been guilty of letting a Harpy escape alive, but that’s something I can never tell anyone. Ever.

 
; As a joke I nearly suit myself up in Shelley’s new pink rad suit, but decide that humor probably isn’t the most appropriate thing right now. Instead I lace up in my old gear, worn-in black leather pants, dark brown combat boots and a white long-sleeve anti-rad shirt. I stuff my bags with pills for radiation sickness and a rad mask—just in case. I lock the door before I leave, my stomach flipping from nerves and who knows what else. It’s always before a big event that there’s the most tension. Once it’s begun, you just have to follow the wave until it’s over.

  The streets are quieter in the evening, the Holo-sky fading into the same deep sunburned pink as yesterday and the day before that. I could go on. I hop on the streetcar and ride near the back, hand gripping the cold metal bar until I reach the underground Elder Corp building. Glancing up at it, it’s obvious that it’s the only building that surpasses the sky, the grey bricks seemingly rising forever. Even though it’s Ichton and the Corp knows where I am, I still keep my face down as I enter the building.

  As usual the main lobby is swarming. Some older people with radiation sickness hold up protest signs asking for a cure while young Corp initiates pass out flyers outlining their latest projects, always asking for money. To think that after years of war, we still can’t figure out money. I make a bee-line to the elevator, thankful that when the doors slide open, most of its inhabitants scurry out into the lobby. There’s a sign above the doors that reads: Please be courteous and let passengers exit before boarding. As soon as it’s clear I shuffle in. A young girl stands next to the button controls, and looks at me patiently as the doors slide shut. I fumble around in my pockets until I find the address.

  “Umm, A7 please,” I mumble. She presses the button, but her gaze doesn’t waver from me.

  “So you’re going above ground?” she asks. Her long hair is tied in pigtails and her denim shorts are covered with cheap plastic gems.

  “I guess so,” I reply vaguely. I’m not good with kids, never have been. She tilts her head and smiles at me.