Pollen
Chapter eight

Rome wiped the sweat from his face and rubbed it down the side of his trousers, much to Mae’s annoyance. It was her biggest pet hate, and she tutted loudly. Rome, resisting the bait to ask what was wrong, instead looked at his breast pocket where he had a handkerchief she’d bought him for sweating. This wasn’t heat sweat, however; it was cooler. This was his body’s reaction to his frayed nerves. He took the handkerchief out and patted his brow before smiling at her. They were almost at the biggest tunnel entrance in New Hanoi, located at the heart of Freedom Square.

He hated it here. The idea of “freedom” manifested in an area of land, the main purpose of which was to trade what little you have to people who have everything was not a concept he could sign up for, no matter what profit he made. As with all things that can spin a profit, the square was heavily fortified, not for the protection of the people here, but for the protection of those below—those from the outside.

The entrance was a reinforced brick-and-razorwire labyrinth of corridors that led to ten bunkers, all sealed with giant iron doors and each numbered with a stenciled warning: Property of the Magnoliophyta Corporation. This corporation was better known to everyone as the Flower Factory. Each bunker came complete with two armored machine-gun sentinels overlooking the entrance. Behind the bunkers, a wasteland leading to the most secure compound in New Hanoi—the water processing plant.

Five stories high, the plant was a fortress of brick and iron. Snipers guarded the rooftops and smart mines peppered the perimeter. There were gigantic blue pipes like octopus tentacles boring deep into the earth. They fed their precious cargo through the brick walls and into the plant. Each pipe had an automated AI drill and pump at its head, its mechanized roots endlessly searching for new water sources.

The operation here was colossal, constant crowd control; it felt like an emergency was always imminent. Rome and Mae had a little pushing to do to get into line, but with a flash of their IDs they made it past the business checkpoint. They walked into an area of reinforced concrete and razorwire, a walkway exclusively for the use of those with certain privileges.

The business-class bunker opened out before them; as the doors swished shut, the noise and threats of the outside vanished. Here the guards wore suits instead of urban camouflage, and their gas masks weren’t blacked out. You could see their faces and their fake smiles. The simple but elegant room was lined with comfortable leather couches, and an assortment of leopard lilies dotted the room in large bouquets decorating antique tables. A masseuse offered them a free foot rub, then they were greeted with an automated presentation flickering on a big Network screen about safety in the tunnels. The cheery voice said, “ . . . and remember, it’s a big bad world out there and it’ll kill ya if ya let it.” Rome raised his eyebrows knowingly at Mae.

The double doors of the elevator slid open, exposing enough room for fifty people; it was like a large living room descending at twenty miles per hour. A screen display that wrapped around the three walls of the lift pumped news and the latest stock deals in real time. The attendant, looking smart in a gray suit, nodded as they entered and pulled down a big brass lever.

The trading tunnels were the life of New Hanoi. Without them, the district would wither and anarchy would take hold and choke its residents for decades. Food, flowers, clothes, electrical goods, building materials—everything needed to survive was imported into the city through here. There were no natural resources in New Hanoi and so the Flower Factory controlled every item coming in and out. This was their land beneath the earth. Guards and security checkpoints littered each section. Every word was monitored; Rome had seen a Trader being pulled away for mentioning it was a hot day from where he’d come from.

The main tunnel was a single strip that ran for the five-mile length of New Hanoi, with multiple sub tunnels running off of it. Rome had always wondered what would happen if they kept digging, if they’d find other tunnels, but security was taken very seriously here and the Flower Factory clearly did not want any uncontrolled digging. A small, well-armed army couldn’t overrun the security forces. The main tunnel’s dimensions were huge: thirty-eight meters wide and ninety meters tall. It was carved with one visionary intent—to provide the start of a viable underground city. The ribbed vault roof imposed an air of strength, of protection from the concerns of the surface. The tunnel was cut perfectly out of the bedrock with grace and a mathematical exactness that Rome could only admire. The murky mirror surface was only broken by a series of carbon-fiber clasping buttresses and lilies blooming along the wall in perfect uniformity. Between the buttresses stretched a meter-tall screen displaying deals, adverts, and directions. Lights beamed upward in columns, subtly changing throughout the day. Bright hues of yellow lit the drag at midday, tones of ochre at sunset, and at night a gentle blue.

“Go to hell!”

They overheard a deal going sour in the commotion as they emerged from the business elevator. The big deals were all done in private, but the thousands of little deals happened in full view of everyone. The Traders wanted the best prices and often fights would break out between rival bidders. Suits and scum—every class was represented here in the main tunnel.

“Hey, fella,” said a bald thin man who stepped out in front of Rome and Mae. “I got some real good merch from a newbie Trader, I’ll trade with you. Give you good discount.” His eyes widened, his pupils dilated. He was tunnel drunk, which meant he spent more time below ground than above. Rome firmly shook his head. The drunk wandered off to find an easier target.

The Flower Factory owned everything down here. They even owned the air everyone breathed. Rome didn’t like it; he started to feel that even his thoughts might be recorded. The volume of adverts pumping from the walls bombarded him; he couldn’t think straight and found catch phrases beginning to infiltrate his sentences. The guards enjoyed making trouble when they felt bored; an edge of ambiguous violence had spread recently. The promotion of fear, coupled with the need to do business meant that trades happened quickly, often to the advantage of the Trader. They strutted around with their oversized guns, checking out the women and playing screen games on the Network. Rome avoided eye contact, but Mae always enjoyed provoking them.

Walking down the tunnel was like trying to navigate a hail of gunfire, too many people darting from sub tunnels to food stalls, from Trader ports to the exits. Everyone was in a dash for freedom. Everyone, that is, but the Traders. The Traders here were far more relaxed than on the surface, their masks painted with motifs of skulls, or bright, kitschy logos of their favorite bands. Here, they walked with a swagger, and you did not bump into them; you had to duck and dive out of their way. Down here they were kings.

They got behind a heavyset Trader strolling down the drag, with everyone moving out of the way for him. Rome and Mae walked in his slipstream and were now making quick progress. The bottlenecks happened when smaller lift entrances took people back up to the surface; they were ill-equipped to deal with the volume of people. It was here that skulls were regularly cracked; the claustrophobia of the crowd seemed to tip people’s common sense over to a frustrated violent outburst.

The main intersection, the cross of the tunnel, was approaching. Here, the bulk of food and goods were distributed to the surface into huge warehouses. From the warehouse’s shop owners, supermarket vendors and anyone in the market could come and pick up their ordered goods. It was the intersection that pumped the life into New Hanoi. At the center stood a large limestone statue of hundreds of people climbing up a mountain, each with a little flag of their own. Named The Pursuit, it was meant to remind people that their daily grind was a pursuit to the top. Somehow, it never felt like that.

Lots of smaller tunnels branched off from the intersection; they led to various warrens of dealers, brokers, and entrepreneurs. The only light in these sub tunnels came from drinking dens that had been carved into the rock. Some, dazzling and cheerful, had their patrons spilling out into the tunnel. Others were darker, more reserved, for serious people with serious ideas.

Rome and Mae left the chaos of the drag and ducked down a small tunnel. The sudden relief of having space felt like lying on a treatment table after twelve rounds with a heavyweight champ. They passed alcoves of lilies, the smell of the pollen helping them feel at ease—pockets of home in a half-lit world. Ahead, a dull blue light filtered through a smoky haze coming from the window of a bar. A streetlight from the surface had been brought down and installed outside. It flickered and buzzed with an awful noise. These murky aspects only served to highlight the rougher elements of the bar. Hewn directly from the limestone, the bar’s two large windows had a metal mesh over them. The steps up were crooked, and the thick wooden door looked like it had been nailed together from various planks of timber splashed with red paint. Mae stopped Rome before he entered.

“Let me do the talking.” Her voice was laced with the resignation of a long-suffering parent.

“I think I can handle myself.” Rome cut back.

Mae kissed him on the cheek, muttering “Of course you can, honey,” and entered the bar.

As they entered it was clear this was a place where nobody cared about anyone else. They were anonymous. Rome enjoyed it after the pressure of the last two days. The bar was split into segments, with stalagmite pillars running down the center. Hunched, gruff men and women spoke to each other in a low rusty hum.

Mae made her way to the bar and ordered two drinks. She leaned over the counter; with her legs at full stretch and her bum sticking out a little, she looked naturally sexy without thinking about it. Rome scanned the room. Only one face was looking at them: a Trader with his mask blacked out, sitting in an alcove. He was motionless, but Rome could tell his attention was fixed on them. Mae turned around with the drinks and Rome led the way. The Trader leaned back on his limestone stool and tapped the slate table with his fingers. Rome and Mae sat down opposite him silently and huddled together, leaning forward.

“You know who we are?” said Mae.

The Trader nodded.

“Then you know we know the secret is out.”

The Trader nodded again.

“Okay Mr. Mime, so we need to know something from you. What happens next?” said Mae.

“He knows.” The Trader pointed at Rome.

“We come under attack,” Rome said grimly.

“What?” Mae straightened up.

“The rose, the rain—they are messages. Something big is about to crash down on us like a hammer.”

“Correct,” the Trader said.

“You must know what I’m going to ask next,” said Rome.

“Yes,” replied the Trader. “Why?” He paused and his head hung low. “Land, power, cultural differences, resources. It’ll always be the same reasons. Does it really matter?”

“I get that,” said Rome, “but look at us. We have built a little something from nothing. We depend on you for everything. What is there to gain from invading us?”

“Invade? Oh no, Rome, this is not supposed to be an invasion. Certainly not from us. We’ve got too much to lose. You will come under attack, but not from us—from your neighbors.”

“Little Tokyo?”

“Yes. The Flower Factory has struck a deal with their leaders: they get land and the factory gets your biggest asset to sell to the world.”

“What on earth do we have that the world wants?” Mae’s voice shook with anger.

“Every scientific breakthrough has come at a time of intense research, where all the resources of a country are behind a team, or a person with an idea that will benefit that country. Here, in this city, in your micro-states, you each have a specific problem, and you have worked tirelessly and in a hive of communication and productivity to create solutions to your problems.”

“Power?” Rome said.

“Correct. You’ve been given so few resources other than food and water that you needed to create new ways to store and generate power. By fixing your power problem, you’ve created such a surplus of power that it’s become your currency. Your solutions have used the minimal materials and cost, and your intense focus over the past few decades has perfected the technology. There are long wars rumbling on in the world for power, and here you are, sitting on all the answers.”

“So why not talk with us, trade with us for it, or give us our freedom?”

“Don’t be so naive. Since when has anyone traded for a revolutionary technology or hugely desired resource? History has taught us that even the ‘good guys’ don’t dick around when it comes to resources.”

“Great. So you want our power technology and you are getting someone else to get it for you?”

“My people are. I’m not.”

“Well, that’s fantastic.” Mae shot him down. “Nice to have a few more pieces of the jigsaw before we get massacred,” she scowled at him.

“Listen.” Rome felt the frustration hack at his logic. He tried to cool off. “I need something concrete here; otherwise I’m a witness to a slaughter. We’ve got nothing to defend ourselves with. I don’t know what or who is on the other side of our walls, but I’m guessing they’ll have an advantage?”

“Yes, it would seem they would. They have more advanced weaponry, but there are more of you. That’s not the point. We pulled you into this to become a leader, Rome. You can try and save the people of New Hanoi at great personal risk to yourself and Mae, or you and Mae can escape, and no one will ever know. We’ve left the solution to your problems in your home, in your safe. A serum that will help you in the coming war.”

“Christ why don’t you people just hand me things? Do you need to keep breaking into my home, my business?” Rome shook his head.

“It’s the result of years of clandestine work, and I hope our efforts have not been in vain,” the Trader continued, not missing a beat.

“Decide what you will do. If you choose to pursue the greater course of action, go to the northeastern walls at 8 a.m. tomorrow. I have to leave now. They are close, and they cannot see me with you. They still don’t know how important you are, and let’s try to keep it that way.”

“Wait one fucking second.” Rome slammed his palm on the table as the Trader stood, tying his long brown duster jacket together. “Save ourselves or save the district? I’m not who you think I am.”

“Then you are all in a lot of trouble.”

“Did you hear they sent a bomber to my café?”

“No,” the Trader said, “but it does mean they suspect you. Don’t invite any strangers into your life, either of you.” He checked his watch. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to leave the tunnels and get above ground. If you don’t, you may never get out. What happens next is not my doing, but it was deemed necessary—a distraction to allow you to escape from watchful eyes.”

As he left, Rome turned to Mae, brow creased, blinking a lot.

“Something in your eye love?” said Mae.

“I feel like I’ve been punched in the face.”

“Now is not the time to feel, now’s the time to get out of here. I don’t trust him, I don’t trust the Traders, the Flower Factory—only you, okay? So let’s move and sort our heads out.” Mae squeezed his hand and kissed his forehead.

“Okay.” Rome’s mind was already working through a chess puzzle. “We should take exit 147a; it’s not the nearest, but we can get there quickly through some really quiet tunnels.”

“A shortcut?”

“Don’t worry; I use it all the time. I don’t want show our faces in the crowd and we’ll easily make the lift before the ‘distraction’ or whatever the hell that means.”

They left the bar with a renewed sense of urgency. Rome moved swiftly through tunnels he knew well; Mae held his hand to steady his nerves. His limp felt worse than at any point since the fall. His joints were rusty, and as they rubbed together, he felt a pain run down his leg. The shortcut tunnel was part of a bypass operation started over ten years ago; it was barely used and had fallen to disrepair. Crude, dim yellow lights protected by dirty steel cages ran the length of the crumbling roof.

The lights became dimmer still as they pushed farther through the dark veins of this underground world. They were reminded that only total darkness was about them when the lights ahead flickered; in the seconds of darkness they saw all their childhood fears. Their imaginations filled the space. Mae glanced over her shoulder. The passage they’d walked down was shrouded in black—the lights had failed. The peril of their escape was starting to make them paranoid. It was at that point that she started to think this was a bad idea.

“Remind me,” she said softly, “why did we come this way?”

“I know. I’m starting to feel this wasn’t a great idea.”

“Well, you are full of them,” she said softly.

They quickened their pace. Rome dragged his foot along the dark rocky path, not thinking about his balance anymore, just trying to keep forward momentum. He thumped his shoulder into the wall several times. They moved under a yellow light when Rome stopped suddenly. A thin shadow fell across their path. Rome turned to look but another figure seemed to emerge from the wall and another jumped from the roof. All was silent. Clad in tight-fitting black armor, like bulletproof shadows, they moved quickly.

Rome had often wondered if he were to meet his end whether he would go out with a bang, or with grace. Would his anger fuel his last moments? Would he accept his fate, close his eyes, and pass peacefully? Clearly his years spent with Mae had made the latter option obsolete.

He swung a punch forward as Mae led with a kick. The black figures parried the blows and swept them both to the cold, hard ground. Rome could feel Mae’s back against his as they sat up, facing opposite directions. Her warmth made him smile. He was glad that at the end, she had inspired him to face life head-on.

“So, fuck wits,” he said without fear, “what do you want?”

“To complete our assignment,” said one of them. Rome couldn’t tell which one. The suits covered their faces and their silhouettes against the caged roof light obscured any remaining features.

“You’re Runners, right? Sent by the Flower Factory? Well, how about you stick a lily up your ass and go to hell.”

“You will provide us with answers, or we will gut your girlfriend.” The voice paused. “After we have spilled her stomach onto the rocks, you’ll be next. Now, I have some questions for you.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Rome spat out at them.

“First, did you meet with a Trader by the name of Mr. Stephenson tonight? Second, what was the exact content of the conversation? Third, are you in possession of a rose? These are my questions. You will answer them now. I trust you understand the importance of your next response as my first act will be to take my razor and start cutting chunks out of your girlfriend, then make you eat them. It’s your choice.” The figure leaned in. His mask shimmered like it had been constructed from snake skin.

“You heard him,” Mae said, leaning over Rome’s shoulder. “He told you to go fuck yourself.”

“I’ve heard stories about you people; you really need to improve your PR. Anyone knows if you get caught by a Runner you’re never seen again, so we tell you what we may or may not know and you’ll make us disappear anyway,” said Rome.

The Runner stepped over to Mae, and produced a thin razor from the index finger of his glove; he stroked it across her breast plate. Mae took the opportunity to kick him with all her might between his legs. He barely flinched, but her foot was in pain from connecting with an armored cup.

“This will be fun.” He placed the tip of the razor against her stomach and pressed it in so slowly that Mae could feel the resistance of her thin layer of skin give way to puncture like the fabric of paper slowly tearing apart. Coldness suddenly swept around her; her pores seeped terrified sweat. She didn’t make a noise, but she bit her lip with such force that it bled. He sank the razor in deeper. Much deeper. He pulled it across like he was gutting a fish. She could feel the blade in her, but he took his time, creeping forward. The pain became unbearable. A muffled cry whimpered out. Rome couldn’t bear it, and the second Runner moved in close—face-to-face with him.

In the darkness Rome had grabbed a rock and waited for his chance. The adrenaline in him surged, but he felt weak. He couldn’t let his mind overwhelm his instinct so he smashed the rock with such speed and force the Runner’s armor did little to protect him. He stumbled into the wall, hit his head. Rome sprang to his feet and pulled back, ready to swing again. The second Runner pulled his blade out of Mae and was shaping up for a roundhouse kick. Rome saw what was happening, but was too slow to stop it. The Runner’s foot flew through the air toward his head. Rome closed his eyes and tried to bring his hand up to his face for the impact, but the kick never came. Opening his eyes, he saw a giant man twisting a knife in the Runner’s chest. Rome threw himself down at Mae and spread his arms out, rock in one hand, glaring at the giant man, protecting her. The guy’s arms were the size of Rome’s torso. He was wearing sandals, a pair of black jeans and a white, but dirty shirt. He turned to Rome. His eyes were green and fierce, and even in the bad light Rome could see his stubble, his scars. He was the type of guy everyone saw, but no one dared look at.

“Well, that was impressive.” Cookie’s husky voice stuck like glue to the walls, the confines of the space, leaving no echo. “I ain’t never seen a civilian take down a Runner. I mean, he’d switched off a little, but still, I knew this would be an interesting job. Name’s Cookie. You know who sent me.”

“Claypool? Fuck me, this day keeps getting better.” He turned to Mae, who looked pale, holding her stomach tightly. “Are you okay?”

“Okay? Of course I’m not fucking okay!”

“Sorry honey, I mean, you know, your stomach.”

“I know about my stomach thank you very much.”

“Let me take a look.” Rome pried her hand away and lifted her top. The wound was thin but deep, around 8 centimeters long; blood pulsed out with every heartbeat. “Mae, you’re going to be fine, it’s not that bad, probably hurts more than it looks.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” she held up her bloody hands.

“It means we’ve got to go.”

“Fine.” Mae pulled on Rome’s shoulder and he helped her to her feet. But she screamed as she tried to straighten up. “I can’t walk. It feels like my stomach is going to pour out of me.”

“Here,” Cookie held out a pill. “It’ll take the edge off pretty much immediately.”

She took the pill without question and swallowed it. Her body relaxed so fast she nearly fell over. “Whoa,” she said, “You need to tell me where I can get some more of that,” she laughed before hugging Rome.

“Give her a second,” Cookie said. “It takes a moment to adjust.”

“We really don’t have a second,” Rome said with strength. “In about five minutes something really bad is going to happen and I do not want to be here when it does. How about you?”

Cookie scooped Mae into his huge arms and started to run down the tunnel. Even with Mae in his arms he was running at speed; Rome could barely keep up. They emerged from the tunnel into a stream of traffic. Cookie put Mae down on her feet. With the crowds of people, no one was able to see the blood on her clothes. Cookie led the way with Mae and Rome falling into his considerable slipstream. They reached the lift quickly. Rome was still breathless. They crammed into the packed elevator, and as the wire mesh door was closing, an explosive, painful noise cracked through them.

Several blasts down the length of the main tunnel punctured the walls and sent columns of limestone spraying out across the air, smashing into walls, and falling on the cowering crowds. The release of pressure from the explosion sent huge fissures snaking up to the roof. Suddenly the crowds surged forward for the lifts, fleeing in panic; they clawed at the mesh. The attendant punched the ascent button as a shock wave of dust enveloped everyone. The lift stuttered and then slowly began its climb. Fingertips gripped the mesh until it had risen out of reach.

“I don’t know what you’re involved in, but I like it.” Cookie whispered in Rome’s ear.

They reached a small lounge room and exited the lift. What was more alarming than the dust filtering out from the elevator shaft was the continuous thudding from outside. Each thud resonated deep in their lungs, like standing next to powerful speakers with a furious drum solo pumping out. Cookie knew immediately what the sound was. “Gunfire,” he mumbled, much to the distress of the others in the room.

He opened the heavy doors and the noise of panic and bullets rattled in. The media screens all flashed a live feed from the tunnels: hundreds dead, a partial cave-in. One network went with the story invasion, another headline beamed out defend yourselves. People on the surface had, in Rome’s opinion, gone nuts. With no one to blame, the crowds took their fear and anger out on the guards to the tunnels. He caught glimpses of the chaos while holding Mae. The large machine gun mounted on top of the exit bunker was firing warning shots into the air, but had already come under attack from small arms fire. It was only a matter of time before the gun targeted people, too.

“This is gonna get messy real quick. Stay behind me,” Cookie said, and stretched his chest. He led with his elbow hammering aside the crowd; those in his way were dealt a blow so severe it seemed comical. People were flung like rag dolls out of the way to clear their path.

The public’s fist was coming down on the only access they had to the outside world. Thugs with bats took the opportunity to relieve their boredom; activists suddenly emerged out of the shadows screaming things like “Let us out.” Rome wasn’t sure exactly who they were shouting at. Then the Brothers’ Resistance surged for a machine-gun nest while the Christians organized themselves for an ambush.

They pushed through the mob quickly, but their exit had taken them out south of the Lanes and into a township where the rusty corrugated steel walls were shaking under the stampede. They ran beneath soot-stained sheets of plastic and red-painted ironwork scraps threaded together to form makeshift walls. Clotheslines fell as more and more people poured out of their homes and businesses to see what was happening. They tried to take cover as a rickety bar front was pushed over; steel and bottles crashed into the street.

Rome, Mae, and Cookie fought their way north, but Mae was fading. She fought the urge to close her eyes, worried she’d be swept away. They heard another bang, but this one didn’t sound like the bombs; this sounded like people making mistakes. They saw a big steel house folding onto others below it. Finally, they reached some space as the flimsy shacks began to merge into a brick-walled neighborhood. The streets were a little better organized, wider and cleaner. Mae fell to her knees.

“Listen, stranger,” Cookie said, breathing hard. “We ain’t too far away from Claypool. I’ll drop her off so she gets what she needs. He needs her alive, he needs to keep you on track, she’ll be his guest until you do what needs to be done. I got the feeling that you are in the middle of this shitstorm. Those bombs down there, the Runners—they wanna make an example outta you.”

“It’s not me they want. It’s the entire district.” Rome barked back. “The more danger you are subjected to and the more instability, the more the brain is ruled by hate and fear. It’s hard to stay objective when you and your family are in immediate danger, and it’s hard to escape that mindset once you’ve gotten used to it. That’s what they are doing; they are trying to scare us all into submission, to stop this movement for the right to choose. That’s what drives us, the desire for freedom and expansion. And maybe we are getting too close.”

Cookie turned to Mae, “Is he always like this?”

A stuttering smile was all Mae had the strength to give. Rome wrapped his arms around her. “Did you ever think, though,” Cookie continued, “maybe we aren’t the ones expanding?”

“That’s what I’m worried about. We’re under attack. We can’t go to Claypool now. I’ve got to go home; the key to what happens next is there. I’m assuming you know where I live?”

Cookie nodded.

“Claypool’s doctor will have to meet us there.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Yes it is. You want to know what I know? Well, the key to what is going to happen next is there. If Claypool wants answers, then we go home, or you can kill us both on the streets in cold blood.”

“Christ.” Cookie rolled his eyes. “How do the simple jobs end up being such a clusterfuck? Fine, I gotta report in to the boss though. And he ain’t gonna be happy.”

Rome kissed Mae on the head; her eyes rolled around. They made their way home.

Everyone had emptied onto the streets, which seethed with rage and fear. People had nowhere to go to find the answers to what was happening. The conspiracy theories started in earnest; fanciful imaginations flew around in their heads. The only common understanding in all of them was that New Hanoi was under attack. First the rain, now they were being bombed. Whatever force had been protecting them from the dangers of the outside world was faltering. Their instinctual response was to arm themselves. Rome saw several weapons in people’s hands, brandished about like alcohol after work. The looting had begun.

With Cookie’s help they made their way back to Rome’s flat easily. He began to understand the psychology of terror; the people here were in such a state of confusion and fear that if someone with authority told them to attack, they would. They were waiting for that voice, for that leader to emerge from the rubble.

On returning home, they were greeted by a doctor and five bodyguards. Mae was taken into the bedroom. Rome tried to follow but the guards stopped him. He understood this would be the last time he’d see her until he finished what had been started for him.

He rolled out his OLED and watched the live feeds. The Prima Linea was first to feel the misplaced anger. Mercifully, no one had died yet, but a few fires had been started, a few fights broken out. The people who lived there had a different take on god and their skin was darker than the rest—easy targets. They had become the bad guys of the hour. Ignorance ruled.

After another uncertain hour, New Hanoi began to relax. The mob had killed or abducted the guards at most of the tunnel entrances, and the main plaza had seen a huge loss of life. It was sticks and stones against armored machine guns. One video showed the protestors trying to recover the dead and injured; tentatively they moved forward. The AI gun systems apparently did not detect a threat, so people began to move the injured, desperately dragging them by their clothes—but then the turrets opened fire. The AI had waited until they were at their most vulnerable. Scores of people fell in a hot hail of gunfire, all caught on a live feed. Rome closed his eyes. The speculation all over the network was that the Flower Factory was expanding and New Hanoi was in the way. Locked in their cage with no food, it would be a long, slow descent into starvation.

Rome ran his fingers over the small box that had been left on his table. He thought of Mae locked away from him, and of his little shop and his little business. He thought of his youth, the days when he would have been at the front of the protest march. With Mae in Claypool’s hands and the district in his, he opened the package tentatively. Inside the cardboard box was a large medical bottle full of liquid, a syringe, and a note with coordinates and a time, 8 a.m. tomorrow. Rome cleared the news from his OLED and began a campaign. A campaign that used his entire power supply and every favor he’d ever been offered, which thankfully was a lot. Rome was leading the people to the walls, and this time he was convinced he was going over.

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