Traitor (Rebel Stars Book 2) (9 page)

From what she'd heard, though, the Wrath wasn't big on peace. Instead, they saw lawlessness as mankind's natural state.

Drunken laughter reeled across the plaza. Torches flapped above the gates to the third district. Beyond, men and women staggered around dressed in strips of textured rubber. Metal spikes protruded from their shoulders and wristbands. Their hair stuck up in garish dyed plumes.

At the gates, a man with leather belts crossing his bare chest moved to intercept them. "What brings you to Bartertown, little lady?"

"Business," Rada said.

"Is that so? Of what kind?"

"Our own."

He tucked down the corners of his mouth, tangled beard bristling. "Don't mean to be nosy, ma'am. Just hoping to be able to point you in the right direction."

"Angling for a tip? We'll be fine on our own."

The bare-chested man smiled and removed a small black hat she'd initially mistaken for part of his hair. "I can see that. By all means, be on your way."

He swept his hat across his body, bowing low. She brushed past, smelling stale sweat. As she moved down the dim street, the bare-chested man ambled toward a knot of six people passing around a glinting glass bottle.

"Better hurry," MacAdams said. "Before they decide to roll us."

Past the gates, fires flared from barbecues and fire pits. The smell of grilled fish, clams, and sweet fruit fought with the odors of sweat and yeasty beer. They got a few stares—just about everyone else was dressed in garbage and hair dye—but either Bartertown's meanness had been exaggerated, or they looked sufficiently mean themselves.

The Maya ruins were scrawled with graffiti. A handful of two-story houses stood back from the street, fenced in by razor wire. Most of the newer structures were ad hoc jumbles of metal drums, reinforced pallets, corrugated metal, and scrap wood. Some were no more than four posts holding up a tarp for the rain. Rada had no idea how they were supposed to navigate this dingy maze, but Webber walked with the surety of someone who'd been here before. There were occasional benefits to working with someone who lacked an acute sense of danger.

A block ahead, a man's voice blared down the street, amplified by an acoustic megaphone. "…the main event!"

A crowd of voices roared as one. Webber hustled to the corner. Down the street, a ring of torches flapped around a chain link cage thirty feet in diameter. Hundreds of people surrounded the ring, fingers hooked through its links, faces painted and howling.

Inside, two giant men stood at opposite ends of the cage, half crouched, arms held forward like wrestlers. Both men wore a harness strapped to their backs. Inside each harness, a child sat piggyback, gripping a staff, the ends of which featured metal bands and spikes.

"On top of the prize money, tonight's duel comes with a little something extra—and I'm not talking about the Masters." The announcer stood on a wooden platform to the side of the enclosed ring. "Whoever wins becomes mayor of Bartertown for one year!"

"Two men enter!" the crowd chanted. "One man leaves!"

Webber stood transfixed, gazing at the nearest pair of combatants. Rada grabbed his sleeve. "Need to keep moving."

"Just five minutes," he said. "We came all this way."

"And if we don't find him now, it will have been for nothing."

He sighed and pulled himself away from the cage. The baying crowd was a double-edged knife. Easy to blend in, but the same went for this so-called Harl Nunez. Rada worried the man would slip away before they'd had the chance to find him. They moved around the fringes, hunting faces.

"Chill here a sec," Webber said.

He beelined for the open-air bar. Rada stopped herself from grabbing him. This was his element. He bobbed and weaved through the throng like a skiff docking at Mars One. At the bar, he flagged down a woman behind it, drew something small from his pocket, and placed it on the boards. She swiped it away without looking at it. After a chat, she pointed to a smoky porch set back from the ring.

Webber returned, grinning like a dog that's found something to roll in. "Follow me."

Rada fell in beside him, with MacAdams acting as icebreaker whenever the crowd thickened. Smoke swirled from the porch with the smell of earthy tobacco and the chemical tang of W8KE. There were a good dozen people there, but Rada homed right in on the man from Fell's files. The one who had once called himself Marcus DuPrima. As she approached, his eyes locked on her, going as wide as if she'd pulled a gun.

"Harl?" she said. "Can I have a word—?"

The man's gaze darted past her shoulder. Something struck her in the back of the head. Stars exploded into being. She dropped to the dirt.

6

Ced's heart burst into gear. Dapp's face hung over him. The boy wasn't alone. Four of his friends were spaced around Ced's desk, grinning like they'd just opened a box of donuts. A searing rod of anger surged in Ced's gut. For a split second, he thought he'd push their grins so far down their throats they'd turn inside out.

But there were five of them. He'd only been learning how to fight for a couple weeks. They were older, bigger. He couldn't run, either; a boy with floppy blond hair had his back pressed to the door.

His only weapon was talk. He knew he couldn't convince Dapp not to hurt him—Dapp was too mean and too mad for that. But someone had to be watching through a camera somewhere. Or maybe one of the kids they'd scared out of studies would go tell. All Ced had to do was stall Dapp until a grownup came.

"What do you want, Dapp?" he said.

Dapp thumbed his cheek. "These scars you gave me? Time you got some of your own."

"No, thank you."

He jerked his chin at his friends. "Does it look like you have a choice?"

"They're here to help you? I thought they were cheerleaders."

"Stand up, fish."

Ced gritted his teeth. He shouldn't have talked back. It wasn't fair. Dapp had bullied him. Forced him to fight back. So he'd done just what Dapp wanted. And now Dapp had come back with his friends to make sure he'd win after all. When Ced so much as spoke, he dug the hole all the deeper—the hole they wanted to put his body in.

Dapp lowered his voice. "I said stand up. Or do you want to do this sitting down?"

Feeling sick, Ced stood. He dropped into his knife-fighting stance, keeping his guard high. "I know kung fu."

Dapp laughed and glanced at one of his friends. "Did you hear him—?"

Ced punched him in the face as hard as he could. Dapp yelped, flinching away. Ced hit him again, this time in the stomach. The boy grunted and doubled over, bringing his face down—and right into Ced's ascending knee.

The boy's nose crunched, spraying blood on the off-white floor. He howled. Ced snarled and raised his elbow, meaning to slam it into the back of Dapp's head. And end this.

Something plowed into his side, ramming him into a desk. His ribs exploded in pain. The blond boy who'd been guarding the door detached from Ced and punched him in the eye. Gasping, Ced rolled across the desk, putting it between him and his attacker. A foot stuck him in the side of the knee. He staggered away from it, slipping behind another row of desks. Where were the adults? Was no one monitoring them? Or were they letting this play out on purpose? Letting them train themselves to handle the street?

Across the room, Dapp stood. Blood streamed down his upper lip. He spat a red wad onto the ground. His eyes were full of tears, but they held even more anger.

He wiped his lip. "Hold him down."

The blond boy came at Ced from one side. Two others circled through the desks, with the last boy hanging back, making sure he didn't make a break for the door. Ced screamed as loud as he could. All five of them froze, blinking. A boy with stuck-out ears swore and continued toward him.

Ced shoved over a desk, tangling the big-eared boy's path, then backed past another row of desks. The others were advancing again and he was running out of room. The only way out was to make a break for it, push past the boy guarding the door, and run outside.

He moved toward the front of the room, drawing the others after him, feinted to his left, then sprinted to the right. One of the boys yelled out, falling down as he tried to change course. The others kept their footing, chasing after him. The boy by the door crouched and spread his hands. Ced growled, lowered his shoulder, and plowed right into him.

The boy grabbed him tight, stumbling backwards, then wrenched himself to the side, bringing them both crashing to the ground.

Shoes slammed into his back, his tailbone, his hip. He tried to get up, but they knocked him back down. He wormed under a desk, entire body ringing with pain. He rolled out the other side. By the time he'd gotten to his feet, Dapp was on him, striking him in the mouth. Ced hit back wildly, landing two body blows. Dapp swore and grabbed him, using his size to smash Ced back to the ground.

Ced came down on his arm. Something gave way. Sweat broke out across his face and back. The pain caught up to him and he retched. Dapp hunkered over him, punching whatever was exposed. The shoes returned to hurt him wherever they could.

He tried to protect his broken arm, but he knew it was no use. They were going to kill him. Something inside him cried out, but there was nothing more he could do.

The door burst open. The five boys straightened, turning as one. Ced forced himself up on his hip. In the doorway, Kansas took in the scene, her silvery eyes lighting up.

"You could have let this be, Dapp," she said. "What comes next is your own fault."

Dapp jutted his jaw. "He hit me with a tray. Like a pussy."

"And we all cheered."

"Call for help!" Ced blurted.

"Why would I call for help?" Kansas' brow creased in confusion. "The adults will never hurt him like he deserves."

Her hands fluttered to her waist. She flicked her wrists. Two black rods snicked into existence. Ced had seen them in fight class: collapsible graphite batons, weighted at the ends. The boys were still gawking as she whipped one of them into the side of Dapp's head.

He dropped like a rock. A boy stumbled back, tripping over Ced and landing on his arm. White heat shot through his head. Everything went far away. Even so, he could still hear the crack of batons on bone. The screams of hurt. The steady breathing of the girl as she dispensed her justice.

It sounded like music.

He sank into blackness.

* * *

The Red Men loomed above him, red crosses burning above the blankness of their eyes. Someone was screaming, high-pitched and terrified. One of the men put a small white rod to his neck. The screaming stopped. He felt warm, relaxed. But as long as they were there, he knew these feelings were illusions. He was in a nightmare.

For a time, there was nothing.

Then his mom was standing in the doorway, flicking on the lights. "Come on, Ced. Time to get up."

"Why do
I
have to get up?"

"I have to go to work. And if
I
have to get up, and go to work, I'm not going to be very happy knowing you're still snug in bed."

"Why do you have to go?"

"Because I'm already gone. Don't you remember?"

"I don't want you to be gone," he said. "I'm scared."

Her eyes grew as dark and as deep as space. "I love you. But I'm not here anymore. You're all that's left."

"Then what do I do?"

"Go on," she said. "Go on."

She moved toward him, hovering over the bed, but he could already see through her. Then she fizzled away, and she was gone for real, but he knew she was still there, too.

He didn't want the dream to end. But they always did. This one was no different.

* * *

A face loomed over him. At first he thought it was Dapp, come to finish him. He wriggled against the pillows, sheened with an instant layer of sweat.

"Hey," the face said. Ced knew the voice: it was the same one that had spoken to him weeks ago in the exercise room. Benson. "You okay?"

Ced relaxed. He was in a bed. The room smelled funny. He was a little fuzzy, but he recognized the sleek machinery of a hospital room.

"What happened?"

"Word is there was a bit of a scuffle." Benson smiled oddly. "Sounds like you should have charged admission."

"Is Kansas okay?"

"You just woke up. You should rest."

"Is Kansas
okay
?"

Benson chuckled. "She's fine. Assuming we keep her. Rest, okay? I'll send a nurse."

The mattress lifted as he stood. Ced continued to ask questions, but Benson left without another word. A woman walked in wearing a gray uniform with red piping. Her glossy black hair was streaked with red and Ced wondered if she matched it on purpose. He thought she was very pretty.

"Look who's awake," she said. "How are you feeling?"

He lifted his wrapped arm. "They busted my arm. Will I be able to use it again?"

"Your people paid for the good stuff. Another week, and you'll never know that you were hurt."

She put a white wand to his neck and temple. His heart bumped, but nothing bad happened. She left. He slept again. The next time he was up, Benson came back, twirling a device in his hands.

He tossed himself in a chair, legs asprawl. "Feel good enough to talk?"

Ced sat up. "About what?"

"Dapp and the others. They say you attacked them."

"They're liars! They kicked everyone else out so they could ambush me. They were trying to—"

Benson patted the air. "Hey, hey, calm down. I've seen the video. I've heard their story. I want to hear yours."

Ced's pulse thundered in his head. He took some deep breaths. Once he trusted his voice not to shake, he told what had happened. Benson tapped notes on his device.

"They were there to hurt me as bad as they could," Ced concluded. "You should fling them out an airlock in their underwear."

Benson tapped his device with both hands. "Airlock…underwear. Got it."

The next day, feeling fine, Ced got up and wandered around the hospital, but it was full of sick people, and they were mostly gross and boring. He spent a lot of time thinking about the fight in the study room. Guilt seeped from his pores. He should have been able to stop it without hurting anyone. There had to have been a way to talk his way out.