“They killed them,” he said, eyes blistered in tears.

  “Who?” TimBob asked.

  “Scar, Ghost, and Pixel. They’re gone. Fringing EQ lined them up and blasted him in the head. No warning. No arrest. Just dropped them like null-tech because they were … orphans.”

  Twick crumpled to his knees, a low keening sound buried in his throat. Zero’s eyes flashed multiple colors – a glitch that only happened when emotions overwhelmed his ocular servos.

  TimBob sat motionless, his face hardening into something Kip had never witnessed.

  “You saw it, String?”

  “I heard the order. Some slag commander said they were unlinked. They shot them like ratworms.”

  “Where?”

  “Near the levtrain station. By an incinerator.”

  Kip didn’t need to mention the rest.

  “Scar was my top hand from day one,” TimBob whispered, voice cracking. “My flow-brother, for true.”

  “He took one for me, TimBob. We were trapped. Told me to scatterbox.”

  Twick wiped his tears.

  “Pixel, she was a comer, for true. Eleven revolves old and the biggest heart.”

  “Me and Ghost was like best brothers,” Zero said. “Fringing slags!”

  “Em set us up.” Kip spit his words. “Why did she do it?”

  “Her mom, I’d bet my chits. She’s a null-jack ratworm, true-true.” TimBob shaded his eyes. “She played me.”

  Kip heard Emilie’s promises echo and remembered her moist lips.

  “Played us all. I thought I loved …”

  Twick wiped his face, leaving streaks in the grime.

  “What do we do now? They’ll drop us one by one, for true.”

  “They always do this slag,” TimBob said with a hollow tone. “They been dropping us out of sight for gens. Make us, use us, then bin us when we spark-true for more than scraps.”

  Kip looked down at his flashgun, which no one had asked about, and realized he had the solution. He opened his jacket to reveal the other three he grabbed during the heist.

  “Maybe we stop running.”

  The others stared at the weapons, their grief eclipsed by surprise.

  “You want to fight EQ?” Zero asked, his voice cracking with emotion. “That’s null-logic, String.”

  “They murdered our friends,” Kip said, the rage in his voice surprising even him. “I saw what those Tets really think of us. I ain’t-a letting that stand.”

  “Slow your roll, String,” TimBob said, a strange light flickering in his catlike eyes. “I got a better idea. The last one EQ would ever expect.”

  “What could be better than making those slag-heaps pay?” Kip clutched the flashgun tighter, his knuckles white against the grip.

  TimBob’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “We’re gonna hitch a lift.”

  Zero’s eyes whirred as they recalibrated.

  “A lift? That’s your spark?”

  “There’s four within a quarter parsel,” TimBob continued, unfazed. “Only one is a thru-lift. If we plug in, it’s a straight drop to the district. No switch-ups.”

  Twick shook his head.

  “We won’t get past those slags. They got the lifts covered.”

  TimBob nodded.

  “That’s why it’s the last fringing thing them slags would expect us to flow through, true-true.”.”

  Kip frowned, the rage still burning through his chest.

  “So, we just flow up to them slag-heaps and ask ’em spark-nice to let us cruise through?”

  TimBob crouched down and called what remained of his little revs in close.

  “What String said. Almost. We’ll walk right toward them, hands up, saying we surrender.”

  “All of us?” Zero muttered. “How does that work?”

  TimBob winked.

  “Didn’t say all.”

  The Pikers’ leader explained his plan, which started with activating the extra three flashguns. Zero and Kip took on that task, Kip instructing his flow-brother on the technique he used with the first one.

  TimBob pointed out the gun’s side knob, which shifted the settings from kill to stun.

  “We’ll use this one. EQ won’t show us the same courtesy, but this slag will be recorded on the security nodes. We won’t kill them, but we’ll make them hurt. We stun, we run.” TimBob turned to Kip, who struggled with the half-measure. “You chill with going soft on these null-jacks?”

  Kip wanted to argue. The image of his friends splat on the deck left him craving equal returns. But TimBob’s steady gaze held him in check. When he didn’t answer, TimBob followed up.

  “My little revs must live on, fight the good fight. Pikers forever.”

  Silence fell over the group as each considered the plan. Kip’s fingers hardened around the flashgun. But TimBob was right. The war was just beginning. They needed to be free to keep up the fight.

  “Pikers forever,” Kip finally said.

  Zero nodded, his expression grim.

  “Better than waiting to be found.”

  Twick hesitated longest, his thin frame trembling.

  “We ain’t-a hanging about up here. Let’s do it.”

  They checked their flashguns, activating each. The weapons glowed with a faint blue light, power cells charged and ready.

  “Let’s flow.” TimBob led them through a narrow passage that opened into a service corridor. The main plaza lay just ahead, and beyond that, Lift 17 with two Enforcement Q officers on duty.

  The rage still burned inside Kip, but now it had purpose, direction. He would survive this night. For Scar. For Ghost. For Pixel.

  And then he would make sure their deaths weren’t for nothing.

  They dropped from a vent into a public water room. Kip, Twick, and Zero left first. TimBob reminded them to maintain their calm, follow the script, and fall to their knees on command.

  “My little revs,” he said. “You’re men tonight. Flow true.”

  “Flow true,” said the threesome in unison.

  Being out in the public space felt like a shameful surrender. Unlike during the hectic hubbub of daytime, the wide corridor leading to the lift was sparse – only three Tet civilians waited near the officers.

  Kip nodded, his mouth too dry to speak. The jacket concealed his flashgun.

  They approached with hands to their sides. The civilians – including a woman with a datapad and two men in casual suits – paid them no mind. However, the guards raised their guns straightaway and moved forward from the lift doors.

  “Hands where we can see them!”

  Kip lifted his hands, heart pounding. If he did anything wrong, would these bastards gun them down, too?

  “Please,” he called out, trying to sound terrified. “We’re just trying to get home.”

  “On your knees, now,” the second guard barked.

  The first guard lifted a hand toward his mouth and spoke into it.

  “Team 9. We have three terrorists confirmed at Lift 17-99. Request backup.”

  Kip didn’t hear the response, not that it mattered.

  “I need you away from the lift, please,” the second guard instructed the civilians. “For your safety.”

  They complied as both guards trained on the boys, moving closer but not in a great hurry. The first guard, a twentyish man, sneered.

  “Blend trash. You …”

  He never finished his statement.

  Two sharp cracks split the air.

  Both guards dropped like puppets with cut strings. Holes opened in their chests.

  Not the blue arcs of stun rounds; the red reality of lethal fire.

  The civilians screamed. The woman bolted down a side corridor while the men stumbled backward, tripping over their own feet in a rush to escape.

  TimBob joined his Pikers, his flashgun still carrying the hint of smoke.

  “That’s for Scar and Ghost,” he said. “One more, and we’ve done for Pixel.”

  “You killed them,” Kip whispered, shock washing through him. The relish he expected after TimBob’s unannounced change of plan did not fill his heart.

  He also didn’t have time to contemplate his emotions.

  “The lift,” TimBob urged. “Now.”

  A crackle of static from one of the fallen guards drew their attention.

  “Team 9, report status. Sensors indicate weapons discharge near L17-99.”

  Kip froze. The comm unit on the guard’s shoulder broadcast for all to hear.

  “They know,” Twick whispered, panic rising in his voice.

  Eyes turned to the lift’s status display. It lit green, indicating the lift approached. At present, L105, but scheduled to stop at 104 and 100.

  “We’re nulled,” Zero muttered. “EQ will be on us before it gets here.”

  Kip drew his flashgun, scanning the corridor.

  “What do we do, TimBob? Hold out or run?”

  “We’ll see it done. Pikers forever.”

  The way he held his gun delivered the message. They formed a gauntlet units away from two dead men, their weapons pointing at each potential approach angle.

  Kip’s muscles coiled. Was this where it ended?

  The guard’s comm unit crackled again, more urgent this time.

  “Nearest teams to L17-99. Officers down. Hostiles present. Repeat, hostiles present.”

  He realized how EQ knew so much. His eyes found one of the many security nodes nearby. The enforcers knew what they were running into.

  Even if we get away, we ain’t-a ever gonna be free.

  He thought to blame TimBob for a reckless decision, but remembering Scar, Ghost, and Pixel hardened his resolve.

  The lift chimed. The doors slid open.

  Three civilians stood inside: An elderly man and a young couple. Their eyes widened at the sight of blood and weapons.

  “Out,” TimBob ordered, his voice deadly calm.

  They didn’t need to be told twice. The civilians scrambled past, giving the bodies a wide berth as they fled.

  The Pikers piled into the lift. TimBob slammed his palm against the panel, selecting Level 64.

  “Straight down to Market Strip, my little revs.”

  “Close, close,” Twick chanted, watching the corridor.

  The doors began sliding shut just as the first EQ officers entered the same corridor from which TimBob had attacked. They opened fire. TimBob replied with a pair of blasts as plasma bolts slammed into the closing doors.

  TimBob jerked backward, a wet sound escaping his lips. He staggered but stayed upright, returning fire through the narrowing gap one last time.

  The lift lurched downward.

  “Done one for Pixel, too.”

  “TimBob!”

  Kip rushed to the back as his pony-tailed leader slumped against the wall, leaving a smear of blood. A hole opened above his heart.

  “I’m flowing,” TimBob gasped, the Blend-cant slipping as pain overtook him. “Just a scratch.”

  The wound in his chest bubbled with each breath, blood spreading.

  “The display shows three stops before L64,” Zero reported, his voice unnaturally calm. “95, 90, and 88.”

  TimBob nodded, gritting his teeth.

  “That’s some hot luck. Be glad it ain’t-a more. Guard the doors. Each stop ... shoot them slags if they try to board.”

  Kip’s hands shook as he raised his flashgun. The lift felt like a trap now, a metal box carrying them to their doom.

  The lift slowed at L95.

  The doors opened to an empty corridor. No one waiting, no one boarding.

  “Luck’s on our side, for true,” TimBob murmured, sliding down the wall until he sat on the floor. His breathing came in wet, ragged gasps.

  The doors closed. The descent continued.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Kip said, kneeling beside TimBob. “We’ll get you to a meddoc.”

  TimBob’s laugh turned into a cough that sprayed blood.

  “No meddoc for me, String.” His voice had changed, the street slang falling away. “Listen up. When you hit 64, you break for Ruhl’s. You’ll be safe there. Deacon … Offante … he’s got a safe room there.”

  Offante Ruhl is Deacon?

  Kip didn’t have time to contemplate the revelation.

  L90 approached. Again, they readied their weapons.

  The doors opened to reveal a startled Tet couple who took one look at the hot-eyed teens with guns and fled without a word.

  “Stay with us,” Kip urged as the doors shut again. “We need you.”

  “You don’t,” TimBob said, his eyes fading. “Never did. I was just ... guiding you where you oughta be.”

  L88 came fast. This time, a maintenance worker saw the scene inside the lift and backed away, hands raised, before running.

  The doors slipped shut. Only one more stop before L64, assuming no one pushed a button between here and there. What were the odds of their streak continuing?

  “The pendant.” TimBob’s voice grew stronger. He reached with a bloodstained hand and pointed to the center of Kip’s chest. “Never take it off. Never. Hear me?”

  Kip nodded, feeling the warm metal.

  “I won’t.”

  “Promise,” TimBob insisted, gripping Kip’s arm with surprising strength. “It’s real. It’s real.”

  “I promise,” Kip whispered.

  TimBob’s grip relaxed. An odd bliss settled over his features. Kip glanced up at the lift status. Level 80, 79, 78 …

  “My name ain’t-a TimBob,” he breathed.

  Kip blinked back tears.

  “Wait. What?”

  “My real name. I’m Garris Severn. I ain’t-a got time to play no more games … sorry, String.”

  “No, TimBob. You hang on. Please …”

  “Tell them. Garris Severn, for true.”

  “Yeah. I will.”

  Blood dribbled from his lips.

  “I don’t want to be forgot. You do that for me?”

  Kip noticed the pendant pulse, warmer than before.

  “We won’t forget you,” Kip promised, his voice breaking. “Never.”

  Garris Severn smiled, blood staining his teeth. He pressed his weapon into Kip’s hand. Twick and Zero formed a triangle around him, oblivious to what might happen if the lift stopped too soon.

  “Take care of your parents, String.” He turned to the others. “Twick. Zero. You got to be men now. You little revs start your own crew. The fight ain’t-a …”

  His eyes enlarged, as if seeing something no one else could.

  “Mum …”

  His chest stilled, and his face tilted down.

  Kip’s eyes burned as he sobbed. He lost all sense of time, kneeling beside the body of his friend, his flow-brother, a gun in each hand. Even in death, TimBob’s face exhibited a strange peace, as if he’d finally shed a weight worn too long.

  “String. We gotta move.”

  Zero’s voice cracked through tears, the usual electronic percussion of his tone lost to grief.

  Kip couldn’t tear his gaze away. He’d never seen death face-to-face, and not of someone he loved.

  Voices swelled behind him. Confused. Alarmed. The lift doors had opened. Zero or Twick said something about having reached L64. But the sound barely registered against the roaring inside Kip’s ears.

  Twick grabbed him.

  “We gotta run. People say the EQ slags could show any second, for true.”

  More voices. A commotion growing outside the lift. Kip’s fingers tightened around the two weapons in his hands – his flashgun and the one that served justice for Scar, Ghost, and Pixel.

  “Kip! Oh, for the love, Kip!”

  One voice cut through the turmoil.

  Mom.

  He turned, one hand stained in TimBob’s blood. Through tear-blurred vision, he saw her push past a small crowd of Blends who had gathered at the lift entrance. Her face was pale with terror.

  She rushed forward, heedless of the weapons in his hands. Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him to his feet and away from the body.

  “I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

  Kip’s legs gave way as the reality crashed over him. Scar, Ghost, Pixel, TimBob. Dead. Emilie. Traitor. Dead enforcers.

  So many bodies.

  He collapsed into his mother’s arms, the guns clattering to the floor. Her familiar scent, machine oil and that cheap soap she always used, enveloped him as he buried his face into her chest.

  “Mom,” Kip whispered, clinging to her. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.”

  “I know, sweet boy,” she said, smoothing his hair with a trembling hand. “I know.”

  She also said something about needing to move to a safer position, but Kip ignored the details. He looked behind one last time through the lift’s open doors and vowed to keep his promise.

  He’d tell everybody about Garris Severn.

  18

  ARLISS

  HE STARED AT THE CEILING of his cell, reciting the Tetonian alphabet in reverse – a technique he adopted in prison to keep his mind from fracturing. One urn since he'd surrendered himself to Enforcement Q. One urn of not knowing if his sacrifice had bought Kip any safety.

  Some father I turned out to be. In prison again while my boy runs for his life.

  Indiscernible voices outside the cell vied for his attention, each bark of authority sending Arliss’s mind spinning with dark possibilities. His enhanced hearing picked up mere fragments through the thick walls, heightening his anxiety. The voices carried urgency, purpose … the sound of a hunt reaching its climax.

  Please don’t let it be Kip. Not my boy.

  Had Steath and the delegation made progress in the talks? Commander Drace did not seem like a man willing to negotiate.

  Arliss lost patience and pushed himself off the cot, pressing close to the door, desperate to parse meaning from the chaos. Every new shout twisted his gut, every rushing footstep possibly leading to his son.

  The cell’s overhead lights flickered, gone for a split second before returning – but brighter than before. Was it something he did?

  A rush of adrenaline caused the servos in his neck to hum.

  And then he wasn’t alone anymore.

  Arliss felt them before he saw them.