Pacifica

  “This used to be the good part of the city, you know,” said Adam, voice tense. “Before the storms got bad they used the harbor for trade shipments. Most of the business took place down there.”

  Now trade between the nations was tense; Ross knew that much. Much of it was done by air, but that was expensive and unreliable. The storms had made the seas untrustworthy, but it was their fellow man that had ruined the skies. Planes that were able to take off through the storms often disappeared somewhere over the vast stretches of water.

  His mind shifted for a moment to the woman who’d worked for the public safety commission—Roan Teller—and what she’d said at the dinner about supporting a candidate who assured continued independence. To him, independence sounded more like isolation.

  “Did you learn that in Shoreling school?” asked Ross. It didn’t sound as light as he’d intended.

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” said Adam. “I hope you know my dad will kill me if he ever finds out we did this.”

  Adam’s parents were a little more protective than most.

  “Or maybe he’ll be thrilled,” Ross offered. “He’s all about the Shoreling pride.”

  They sometimes joked about Noah Baker’s dedication to his home, but the truth was he defended his people more than Ross’s father had ever defended his own family.

  “I know…” Adam’s voice had changed; it was quieter now. “I know all of that makes me sort of unpopular to be around.”

  Ross almost said something about his ugly face being the reason for that, but sensed they were being serious.

  Their feet clanged on the metal steps.

  “Popularity is overrated,” he said.

  “You say that because you have it.” Adam gave a weak laugh. “You should go back to track. They’d probably still let you be captain.”

  Ross paused. Continued.

  “And go back to waking up at dawn to run sprints? No thanks.”

  But even if he didn’t miss practices, he did miss running. Not being harassed about his “Shoreling boyfriend.” Not being told to choose between a trawler pet and his teammates by Marcus Pruitt. Just running.

  Behind him came the slow draw of Adam’s breath. “I know what happened.”

  Ross didn’t know how Adam knew—he certainly hadn’t told him. He hadn’t told anybody, not even Coach.

  “It’s not a big deal,” he said. But it was. Because by choosing Adam, he’d stopped doing the one thing he was actually really good at, and now he had no way to get away from the politics and drama of his own house. Some days he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

  “Okay,” said Adam. “Thanks, though.”

  It felt strange for Adam to thank him for this. It was as if he’d said, Thanks for not punching me in the face, or Thanks for not spitting in my food.

  Ross stopped. Ahead was the bottom of the bridge, just four flights down for the entrance to the walkway. The exit opened to a park, with outdated, rusted play equipment jutting up from the ground. Beyond it, on the sidewalk, a line of patrolmen in riot gear stood side by side, a menacing wall of black.

  His pulse kicked up a notch.

  He could hear something beyond them. A dull roar, drawing him forward. He couldn’t make out anyone through the thick haze, but knew the relocation center had to be close.

  “Hey,” said Adam. “You said you wanted to find a place to watch.”

  “Just a little closer.” Ross crept closer, toward the equipment. He ducked down behind a tilted plastic slide, hearing the noise more distinctly now.

  Oh no, we won’t go!

  “We should leave,” said Adam. Ross glanced over at him, seeing the line of sweat trickle down his friend’s jaw. They were chanting about Pacifica, the achievement his father was currently celebrating by drinking old, expensive liquor in a suit that cost more than the property of this playground.

  Oh no, we won’t go!

  “Just a little closer,” Ross said again. He snuck forward.

  “Hey!” A shout from their right. Ross, surprised, sidestepped into Adam, who bumped into the supporting beam of a swing set.

  A patrolman had spotted them. He motioned to another. They strode quickly toward the center of the park.

  “Shit,” muttered Ross.

  “We need to get out of here,” said Adam.

  “Let’s see your hands!” called one of the officers. The other had a weapon drawn, pointed in their direction. Ross fought the urge to sprint back toward the stairs, like Adam had said. He didn’t know if the officer held a gun or a stunner, but he didn’t want to find out.

  He lifted his hands.

  “What do you got there, kid?”

  “Nothing,” said Adam, holding out his suit jacket. “It’s my jacket. Look, this is a mistake. We just…”

  Ross turned to face him, a sudden fear tightening between his shoulder blades.

  His mind flew to his mom and dad, who probably thought he was still at the museum, or at least somewhere close with Tersley. This had seemed like a good idea before, but now he wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking. President’s son caught in riots. This kind of thing would not go over well in the morning briefing.

  “Put the coat down and walk away,” said the patrolman. “Now!”

  Adam tossed his jacket on the ground as Ross took a quick step back. “We were just leaving. My father…”

  “Shut up,” said the other officer. A woman. It had been impossible to tell with her helmet and riot gear.

  “Thought you’d sneak by, huh?” she asked, approaching the jacket with caution, like it might explode.

  Behind the patrolmen, the rioters chanted: Oh no, we won’t go!

  “No,” said Adam. “We live up there, not…”

  “Shut up!” snapped the first patrolman.

  The woman lifted Adam’s jacket between her thumb and forefinger like a dead animal. “Where’d you get this? You steal it off some kanshu boy?” She spat the word like an angry curse.

  Ross had never heard that term before. For a moment he thought she meant someone poor—a Shoreling, or a homeless person or something—but then he realized she thought they were the Shorelings.

  “No,” said Adam. “You don’t understand. Let us explain.”

  “You planning your own little demonstration tonight?” asked the woman, shining the light in Adam’s face. Adam threw up a hand to block his eyes, and the sudden movement had both officers on their feet, aiming their weapons.

  The world froze, then snapped back into focus.

  “Wait,” said Ross. “Just listen, please. This was a huge misunderstanding.”

  “Listen to him talk,” spat the male officer. “Huge misunderstanding. Where’d you learn that word, kid?”

  Ross hesitated.

  “We’re taking you in,” said the woman.

  “We didn’t do anything!” argued Ross. “Look at us. Do we look like Shorelings to you?”

  “You’re breaking curfew,” she said. “You’re carrying stolen items. Conspiring to harm. My guess, you have a weapon stashed somewhere.”

  “My father—”

  “Should keep a better watch on his kid,” snapped the woman.

  Ross felt like something sharp had broken off inside him.

  “Look at my face!” he shouted. “Do you know who I am? Your job is in serious jeopardy right now with the way you’re—”

  He was grabbed by the back of the shirt and hauled forward. His gaze shot behind him, frantically searching for Adam, who was knocked forward onto his hands and knees, and then jerked back to a stand by the woman.

  He was going to have these patrolmen fired. Both of them. They had no idea who they were dealing with. Ross didn’t care if they were just doing their jobs.

  But the anger was thin, and Ross couldn’t cling to it. It buckled under the pressure of something heavier. Colder.

  Fear.

  They were pushed to the side of the park, where a line of patrol cars waited.

 
I’m dead, thought Ross. My dad is going to kill me.

  Just before they reached the cars, three men jumped from the shadows and leapt onto the guards. There was a crash of plastic and the scrape of metal against pavement, and then a grunt of pain.

  Horror froze him in place.

  “¡Corre!” shouted a man in a muddy shirt with wild hair. He jolted up and grabbed Ross’s shirt. “Run! Go!”

  Ross didn’t wait. With Adam’s shirtsleeve in his grasp, he ran away from the patrolmen, away from the park, straight toward the crowd.

  CHAPTER 7

  MARIN’S HEART pounded in time with her running feet. She needed to get to the park, and the stairs just past it that would take her above the cliffline. At the top was the old Shoreling visitor center, with the public comm system she could use to contact Teller’s assistant. Tonight, though, the riot had spread from the old hospital, fanned out into the neighborhoods. People were everywhere, raging about the five hundred names that had been chosen to go to Pacifica. She’d seen the broadcast in a shop window on her way here, and the reporter’s advice to stay close to your comm in case you were one of the lucky few.

  The people she’d seen tonight weren’t acting like they’d just won a lottery. They were ready for war. Maybe because they hadn’t been chosen. Maybe because, like her, they wanted to know where the first five hundred were really going.

  She’d sailed across that ocean dozens of times, and even if it had been five years, she’d never seen a place that looked like those Pacifica ads. The water south of the Alliance seaboard had been boiled in the harsh sun; the water north was coated with trash—floating gomi that got caught in the currents. Anything west of that dead mound of lava, Hawaii, was a cesspool of radiation from the reactor meltdown over a century before in Japan.

  So where were the Shorelings being sent? The kanshu certainly weren’t saying.

  Soon, she was forced to walk, surrounded by rioters holding their signs and chanting to the army of soldiers in black helmets, lined up across the street from the relocation center.

  Oh no, we won’t go!

  It hadn’t been like this before. Not this big, and not this wild. She doubted even Gloria could have envisioned that her call to rebel six months ago when relocation had been announced would turn into this.

  The streetlamps were still dark on account of the blackout. The only light left now was from the torches, the flickering flames that threw sinister shadows against the stone building where people were congregating.

  Pushing through the crowd, she made her way in that direction, and with her knife tucked into her belt, she grabbed a vertical pipe and climbed onto the ledge of a first-story stone windowsill. The glass had been replaced by boards long ago, and painted across a sign stating RELOCATION CENTER were the words “Eviction Center.”

  Beyond this mass was the park, and to her right, the road that led up the cliffline onto higher land. But that road was empty, blocked by cars and flashing lights, and officers in black masks with shields. The park was surrounded.

  There was no way she’d get past to the stairs. Not tonight.

  “This is our home!” shouted a man, close enough beside her to make her ears ring.

  Home. The word echoed through her, a reminder of all the things she’d left behind five years ago. Her cot, rolled up in the corner of the attic. The kitchen, where her father had taught her to read from the old sailing book called Moby-Dick, and her mom had taught her how to trim a fish and stab a man. The window outside the Blue Lady, where she had peeped through at Luc and the girl he’d had inside.

  Luc. The memory of his face—sun-browned and framed by a dark curtain of hair—brought a twinge of pain to her jaw, like she’d bitten something sour. He was probably head of the captain’s table now, raking in the tithes of rations and oil that kept their people afloat through the rainy season. Living the dream they’d once shared as children.

  She didn’t have a dream anymore.

  She didn’t even have a home anymore.

  Across the street, three women had climbed atop the roof of a gas station. The windows below were knocked out, and a sign hung on the door that said OPEN TUESDAYS, 10 AM, ½ GALLON PER FAMILY.

  “You can’t get rid of all of us, Torres!” shouted one of them. “If Pacifica’s so great, why don’t you and your kanshu friends go there?”

  Those on the ground below roared their approval. Their passion seeped through Marin’s skin. You could feel the buzz in the air, the vibrations of hundreds of feet stomping on the verge of stampede. This wasn’t a few dozen angry Shorelings; this was an army.

  “THERE IS A CURFEW IN EFFECT.” A voice boomed through the air, vibrating in her chest. “PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR RESIDENCES UNTIL SUNRISE.”

  The Shorelings shouted louder.

  She squinted through the fog, suddenly torn between finding a way through and getting out of there. Ahead she focused on the line of officers in black. They pushed forward as one, tall, clear shields braced before them.

  The Shorelings held their ground against the incoming tide. For a moment, neither side moved. Then there came a woman’s high-pitched scream, a sound that zipped Marin’s spine straight, and the guards advanced.

  “DISPERSE,” came the voice again. “THERE IS A CURFEW IN EFFECT. PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR RESIDENCES UNTIL SUNRISE.”

  “We’re not hurting anyone!” shouted a man near Marin. “You can’t arrest us. This is a peaceful protest.”

  He sure didn’t sound peaceful.

  The Shorelings began falling back, filling in the empty spaces, pressing against her legs as she stood on the windowsill. The shouts were so deafening, they seemed to make her vision shake. Heat, more intense than that outside, traveled up her neck. She needed space.

  She needed the sea.

  She had to get out of here.

  Taking a deep breath, she jumped into the crowd, squeezed and poked and stepped on by those around her. A wincing cry climbed up her throat as the sky above her disappeared, hidden behind swinging arms and paper signs. She wasn’t short, but she was smaller than many of these people, and had to lower her weight to push through. Sweat rolled down her face and into her eyes. Bodies bumped against her and jostled the heavy jars in her pack. She was near the edge when the tide shifted and bore back hard against her.

  “Get up!” someone shouted.

  “Move!”

  “¡Corre!”

  Another scream, and then the haze seemed to take on a life of its own, expanding, growing thick and murky. One hand gripped her knife, the other cleared her path. Soon everyone was running the same direction, but they were bumping each other, throwing her off-balance. She clipped the heel of the woman in front of her and they both crashed to the pavement.

  Then she inhaled, and the world tilted. A familiar smell, sticky sweet and rotten, filled her nostrils. She blinked down at the ground, where black liquid seeped across the pavement.

  Blood, she thought slowly. No. That wasn’t right.

  Tar.

  A hand closed around her biceps and heaved her up. She blinked, gaze locking on sharp blue eyes and a square jaw. He was about her age but tall, taller than most people around them. Wearing white in a sea of dark clothing. When he looked at her she went still; it felt like a spotlight had come down over her, like there was nowhere to hide. He looked at her like he saw everything.

  There was a cut near the top of his forehead, and red smeared through the dark hair at his temple. He leaned forward and coughed, covering his mouth with the crook of his elbow.

  “We have to go,” he said. “Adam! Come on!”

  She fought to keep her burning eyes open, but they stung fiercely. Her thoughts muddled, unable to keep up with her pounding heart. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew it was the tar, that she’d breathed it in, that she had to get away from it to get right.

  “Come on!” he shouted.

  She looked at her pack, now lying on the ground. The canvas was stained black. Glass had s
liced through the bottom.

  The tar.

  The money.

  It was gone.

  “Go,” he shouted, eyes widening. “Go, go, go, go…”

  She stumbled right, and nearly collided with a figure in black. A giant, carrying a shield and a stick and wearing a helmet that hid his eyes. One of the officers. La limpieza.

  Her mind cleared in three blinks.

  Throwing her weight backward, she collided with the two boys. The guard swung his black stick and she jumped out of the way, just in time to avoid a crushing blow to her side. He swung again, hiding like a coward behind his plastic shield. To her shock, Blue Eyes stood there, squaring off with him, yelling something no one could hear.

  The guard raised the stick.

  The boy Blue Eyes had called Adam was pulling him back, but not far enough.

  Marin’s next breath found her fingers tangled in the side of his shirt, jerking him out of the way.

  She caught his gaze one more time. His eyes were crystal blue, just like her father’s had been. Round with confusion and shock.

  A screaming pain ricocheted from her wrist up through her shoulder. With a grunt she toppled sideways, hitting the pavement hard on her knees. Instinctively, she huddled in a ball, consumed by the fire in her arm. It stole her breath, dimmed the sound and the lights and the danger around her. Then the blood began to pound in her ears, and when she looked up, the shielded monster stood before her like a mountain, the club in his gloved hand rising to strike her again.

  She tried to roll to the side, but was scooped up by strong arms, suddenly weightless and brimming with a panic beyond her control. She was caught. Trapped. Her legs hung over her captor’s cradle hold, her shoulders twisted so that she was smashed against his chest. She gripped her bad arm against her chest with her good, and writhed hard enough to loosen his hold.

  A jerk of his chin revealed his face.

  “Hang on,” Blue Eyes said between his teeth. “We’re getting out of here.”

  And then they were running, and she had no choice but to wrap her arm around his neck and hold on, because if he put her down then, she would be trampled by the stampede.

  “This way!” Adam shouted. He pointed ahead to the stairway, and they tumbled down the steps, coming to a stop against a boarded door. She hissed out a breath as an elbow jabbed her in the ribs, but he’d taken the brunt of the fall on his forearm, caging her between his chest and the ground.