CHAPTER I
First Meet
“Go!” Mason shouted. “Come on! You can do it!”
Bhaaj stood in the coach’s box of the stadium with Mason Qazik, Coach of the Raylicon Olympic Track and Field team, a lofty name for perhaps the worst Olympic team in human-settled space. Well, what did they expect? The world Raylicon had only the City of Cries to draw on, with a few million people, whereas the top teams recruited from worlds with populations in the billions.
The runners below were pounding around the oval track in the 800-meter race of the Cries Track and Field Meet. It was a small competition, five local teams, including Mason’s Olympic hopefuls, a group of martial arts students from the Cries Tykado Academy, some kids from Cries University, another team fielded by employees from Abyss Associates, and the fifth sent by Scorpio Corporation. Although Bhaaj wasn’t an official coach with Mason, she’d brought him many of her runners from the Undercity, swelling the size of his team from eleven athletes to over fifty, with hers easily besting the top runners from the City of Cries.
Below them, competitors from the five teams had reached the end of their last lap on the track. The crowd in the arena were cheering, calling out encouragement—
And booing.
Bhaaj scowled. Where did they get off booing athletes, particularly in one of the best races ever run in this spectacular but underused arena? The City of Cries thrived on the otherwise mostly uninhabitable world of Raylicon because of its historical importance and the wealth of its citizens. They’d spared no expense for the technology that made their city into an oasis in an otherwise stark desert, and the Athletic Center was no exception. If only they had a pool of athletes comparable to this remarkable facility.
That could change today as the Undercity runners pulverized the previous records set in this stadium. When the leaders below approached the finish line, the cheering from the crowd swelled—and so did the catcalls. The few holo-reporters covering the event jockeyed with more oomph than usual to record the winners, with Angel from the Undercity in first, Tayz Wilder from Cries in second, and an Undercity youth called Lamplight in third.
Given the informal nature of the meet, it didn’t take long for Mason’s volunteers to validate the results. As soon as they announced the medalists, repeating what everyone already knew, the crowd applauded and flashed their spark-sticks. The holo-casters converged on the winners, especially Angel. With her muscled build, great height, and tattoos, she looked about as angelic as a mountain basher. Gorgeous, yah, with her beautiful face and large eyes, but also a force of nature. Tayz Wilder seemed startled to come in second when in the past he’d run as the undisputed leader in everything, even the 800 meter, despite his preference for longer distances. He seemed more gratified than bothered, though. Finally he had a team worthy of his ability.
Several holo-casters were running toward Mason and Bhaaj. In the few moments of privacy they had left, Mason grinned at her. “The universe of athletics just changed forever.”
Bhaaj didn’t know whether to smile at his exaggeration or scowl at the booing from the stands. She didn’t have time for either reaction before the reporters reached them.
“So, Coach Qazik,” a woman said, shoving her holocam at him. “How does it feel to have gangsters from the Undercity beat your Olympic-trained runners?”
“This is the Raylicon team,” Mason said. “All the runners working with me are trying out for our Olympic Track and Field team. I’m delighted to have such a strong showing.”
“Yes, but most of them come from the Undercity,” a man called out. “These kids live in one of the worst slums in the Imperialate. Are they qualified to run with the athletes you’ll take to the Olympics next year?”
“You’re Major Bhaajan, the Undercity coach, right?” another woman asked. “Didn’t you earn a bronze medal in the classic marathon at the Olympics a few decades ago?”
“A silver medal,” Bhaaj said. “I ran for the Pharaoh’s Army team.”
Another reporter spoke with suspicion. “That seems like too much of a coincidence, that you came out of the Undercity and made an Olympic team, and now you bring all these Undercity gang members here to destroy records in this arena. Cheating is immediate cause for disqualification.”
For fuck’s sake, Bhaaj thought. She said only, “Of course it isn’t coincidence. Running well is a survival mechanism in the Undercity. We have no access to motorized transport. We travel with our legs.” She met his gaze. “Most everyone in the Undercity runs every day of their lives.” For her, that qualified as a long speech, but it was a better than cussing at the reporter.
“Surely your athletes have been altered,” the first woman insisted. “Just look at them, at how long their legs are compared to their bodies. It seems unlikely every one of them just happens to have such a physique. Body augmentation is illegal for any natural-body meet, including the Olympics.”
“Enough!” Mason said. “I always check my runners. None have augmentation of any form. Those who qualify for my team will represent Raylicon regardless of where they come from.”
With that, he grabbed Bhaaj’s arm in a flourish and stalked away from the holo-casters, headed for a tunnel into the interior of the stadium. As a coach’s entrance, it had automated security sensors that blared at anyone who tried to use it without permission, including nosy reporters.
As soon as they were alone, Bhaaj said, “Booing. I can’t believe it.”
“I’m sorry about that.” Mason grimaced. “I knew the Undercity runners would surprise people, but no way did I expect that reaction. So vicious!”
“You think that’s vicious?” Bhaaj asked. “I saw a lot worse when I enlisted at sixteen.”
“Sixteen?” Mason blinked at her. “I didn’t think you could join the army that young.”
“You can’t fight. They put me in school.” They’d intended for her to spend more than two years there, but she’d tested out early by doing far better than anyone expected, after which she’d applied for emancipated minor status. Given that she had no parents, and no one gave a damn about a kid from the Undercity, she’d had no trouble getting it. Soon after, she became a private in the bottom echelon of the military. They sent her out to fight alongside the drones and robots and other low-value soldiers, those considered expendable.
“I didn’t realize you’d enlisted.” Mason’s ever-expressive face became confused. “People call you Major Bhaajan. Doesn’t that mean you served as an officer before you retired?”
“That’s right.” She felt like saying, Not this again, but she held back. She’d come to like Mason this past season since her runners had started to train with his team. “It’s possible to go from the enlisted to the officer ranks.”
“But you’re from the Undercity—” He winced. “Sorry. Now I’m doing it, making all those stupid assumptions.”
His embarrassed response helped Bhaaj warm toward him. “I don’t think anyone expected me to succeed. But I did. When they found out how well I could run, they delayed my commission long enough for me to represent the army at the Olympics.” She could have competed for many more years, except the Olympics didn’t allow biomech augmentation, and army officers received the biomech upon their commission. After she’d fought so hard for her rank, she hadn’t wanted to risk delaying her commission another four years. Instead, she’d put away her track and field shoes and become Second Lieutenant Bhaajan.
“It was worth the work,” she added.
He gave a friendly laugh. “Your usual taciturn answer, yes? I can only imagine the history behind those words.”
Bhaaj almost smiled. She didn’t because in the Undercity you never smiled at someone unless you trusted them. But she did nod to
him.
A group of their runners appeared around a curve of the concourse, laughing and talking. At least the Cries athletes were talking. The Undercity kids gave terse responses or said nothing. Some had trouble understanding their Cries teammates, given the different dialects they spoke. It helped that Angel had experience with above-city culture, enough that she knew how to interact with the Cries competitors.
As the runners gathered around them, Angel nodded to Bhaaj, and Bhaaj nodded back, just barely, but enough to acknowledge the team’s accomplishment.
Mason beamed at them all. “Nice work today! The medal ceremonies will start soon!”
Tayz Wilder, the Cries team captain, scowled. “I can’t believe those people were booing.”
“I understand you’re all upset,” Mason said. “But don’t go down to their level. Choose your words with care.”
“Yah.” Strider, one of Bhaaj’s athletes, spoke in the Undercity dialect. “Got good words for booers. Fucking ass-bytes.”
Some of the runners laughed, Cries and Undercity both, then stopped when Mason glared.
Hyden Laj, another leader among the Cries athletes, spoke in an aloof tone. “Of course we get such gems of wisdom from the Undercity. In refined language, no less.”
Rockjan, the largest of the Undercity gang members, turned to him. “You can go—”
“Enough!” Bhaaj said, in the same instant that Mason said, “Stop it, everyone. Show respect, all of you, to each other and to your opponents. Always, no matter how the crowd reacts.”
The Cries athletes squinted at him, and the Undercity kids turned impassive. None of them liked the booing, but neither did they want to ruin the high of doing so well at the meet. Before anyone thought of a response, a muted roar came from the track.
“What the blazes?” Mason said, looking at the sports band on his wrist.
Max, Bhaaj thought. What’s going on?
gauntlets. When she thought with enough force to Max, it fired bio-electrodes in her brain, which sent signals along biothreads in her body to the gauntlets on her wrists where Max lived. His signals followed the reverse path, letting him “think” to her.
The first runner from the classic marathon has reached the stadium, Max thought. It’s Tam Wiens. She’s doing her final lap.
“Tam just entered the stadium,” Mason was saying, reading the tiny holos above the sports band around his wrist. “It’s too soon.”
“Come on,” Bhaaj said. “Let’s go look.”
They headed back to the entrance where they’d escaped the reporters, and their curious runners followed. Technically, the athletes weren’t supposed to use that tunnel, but neither Bhaaj nor Mason said anything. They came out into the tiers to see a young woman on the track below, headed for the finish line. An orb the size of a soccer ball floated above her, verifying her progress as it had done throughout the city. Two cool-carts wheeled along the track, one with officials getting human verification of her progress and the other with holo-casters recording her win.
“How can Tam be so early?” Mason said. “She must have taken wrong turn.”
“No, look at her stats,” Bhaaj said. “She’s done the full route.” The numbers continually updated on a holo-scoreboard above the track, which took its data from the monitor on Tam’s arm. She crossed the finish line accompanied by an appreciative roar from the crowd. Actually, “roar” exaggerated the reaction, given the stands were only about one-fifth full and a few people persisted with the jeering catcalls.
“We’ve never seen anything like it!” the stadium announcer exulted, his voice coming from media orbs spinning above the stadium. “Tam Wiens, a runner from the Undercity, just crushed the previous marathon record here. Anyone could’ve told you that’s impossible, and yet here she is, her run verified by both human and drone monitors. First place, in two hours and three minutes. Times have steadily improved over the past decades, but if this meet were an Olympic qualifier, that result would put Wiens on the team—ho, look! The second-place runner just entered the stadium, another Undercity athlete, the man called Ruzik. Yes, that’s right, another gang member—wait, I’m getting a note—they call these runners Dust Knights, a syndicate known for their aggressive fighting.”
“I don’t believe it,” Bhaaj said. “Do they just make up this shit?” She’d promised herself to clean up her language here, but this announcer made it too easy to forget.
“We need to get better descriptions out there about your runners,” Mason told her. “But look at Ruzik! He’s going to hit an Olympic qualifying time, too.”
“So he is,” Bhaaj said, gratified but not surprised.
“It’s a new game, folks!” the announcer enthused. “Raylicon may field a respectable team in track and field at the Olympics next year. Who’d have thought so much talent could come from homeless thugs squatting under the city!”
“Enough already with the insults,” Bhaaj growled.
“I’ll register a complaint.” Mason sounded sincere, but far less annoyed. “He’s right about the team, though. What a group!” He grinned at her. “I had no clue you had so many spectacular runners down there in the Undercity.”
“At least you don’t call it a slum.”
“I’ll call it whatever you want.” Mason beamed with unabashed delight. “You can’t scare me with all your scowls and growls, Bhaaj. I know you’re happy.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “The City of Cries better look out. We’re coming.”
Angel stood on the podium with Tayz Wilder to her right and Lamplight on her left. She felt good. The official who put the gold medal around her neck neither smiled nor spoke, a relief given how above-city types did both far too much. As they put the medal on Tayz, though, they were all Congratulations, Del Wilder, Well done. It hadn’t taken Angel long to realize the title Del indicated honor, which they gave to Tayz and not her.
Even so. Angel liked Tayz. He worked hard and gave respect. Not like so many others, with their we-hate-the-Undercity biz, jeering her for winning a race that didn’t even go anywhere, just around a big circle. Well, tough. She’d keep beating their entitled asses. She loved running. Strange, that they’d taken a means of survival—racing for your life—and turned it into a game.
aj had chosen that music to represent the Undercity last year when they competed in The Selei City Marathon on the world Parthonia. Angel and Ruzik had gone to Parthonia to help Bhaaj with one of her private investigator cases, so they figured why not try the race? When the officials had asked what song represented their people, they chose “The Lost Sky.” Since no recording of the song had existed, Ruzik had sung it, the only one of them whose voice wouldn’t kill a desert lizard.
After the medal ceremony, Angel went to where Bhaaj stood talking with Mason. Bhaaj nodded to her and said, “Good run,” a fine response indeed, two words to indicate honor.
Ah, but Mason. Oh, yah. Mason.
“Incredible! Just amazing!” he enthused. “Our team is dynamite! Well, what do you expect! Of course we’re the top team on Raylicon. Fine job, all of you!” And on and on, full of words and verve and thrill. Angel wondered that he didn’t pass out with all that energy. He meant well, though, and he never scowled when Undercity kids outdid his Cries runners. He genuinely didn’t care where they came from. They were his team. Actually, the Undercity kids considered Bhaaj their coach, but she told them to honor Mason, so they did. In this past season, since they’d trained with his team, he’d earned their respect.
While Mason talked, the setting sun stretched shadows across the track. Although sunsets still bemused Angel, the passage of “days” no longer bothered her. She’d started sneaking above ground years ago, to explore the desert and look at Cries from a distance. Gradually she’d become used to the astonishing sky, how the sun came and went. Runners who’d never ventured above ground before had a tougher time when they joined Mason’s team last season, but they liked to run more than they wanted to avoid sunlight, so they came, gawked at the sky, and outran the slicks.
On the podium, the medal ceremony for the marathon had started. It gratified Angel to see Tam receive the gold. Good person, Tam. She never had a bad word for anyone. And Ruzik with the silver. Yah, a fine figure of a man, this husband of hers. He stood tall and impassive, the tats on his arms vivid in the slanting sunlight. The third-place finisher, a guy from the Cries Tykado Academy, got a bronze medal.
Bhaaj was speaking to Mason. “If you’d put Tayz Wilder on the marathon today instead of the 800-meter, I’ll bet he’d have medaled instead of that kid from the tykado academy.”
“Yes, absolutely.” Then Mason added, “Wild wanted to try the shorter race, though, just for practice. For the Olympics, I’m thinking of Tam, Wild, and Ruzik on the royal marathon. Who else? That is, if we qualify anyone else. I’ve got to get this team out to interstellar meets. So far, Wild is the only one who has officially qualified for any Olympic event.”
“Wild?” Bhaaj asked. “You mean Tayz Wilder?”
“You bet! Everyone calls him Wild.” Mason chuckled. “It’s because he’s so wild about training. He never lets up.”
Listening, Angel almost laughed. Tayz was about as wild as a fluff-pup, given that his every word and action whispered, I’m a rich city slick. The team even had a member of the royalty, Azarina Majda. She had none of the arrogance so ingrained in the older Majda women, though. Except for her straight black hair and aristocratic features, you’d never know she was a Majda. Not that the royal Majda family reigned on Raylicon anymore—unless you included their financial biz, an empire of wealth far more powerful than any realm their barbarian queens had ruled thousands of years ago.
The Undercity and Cries athletes mostly kept their distance. At least they hadn’t come to blows. They took their cues from their leaders, Wild as team captain, and Ruzik as Bhaaj’s second for the Dust Knights. Angel discreetly watched Ruzik and Wild. Strange that, to see a Cries man talking to an Undercity athlete. That never happened. Yet here they were. Wild didn’t seem fake, either. Angel felt his emotions, not as strong as with Ruzik, but enough to read his mood. However impossible it seemed, he and Ruzik got along.
She hoped it lasted. If putting Undercity runners and Cries slicks together on one team was going to work, they needed to pull together instead of wanting to pulverize each other.
CHAPTER II
Cartel Jump
Strider, Lamplight, and Zee ran along the canal, their feet pounding the dusty ground. Strider reveled in the exertion, her mind one with the Undercity, this world she loved, even more now that she’d glimpsed what lay above, too much heat and brightness in an eerie city of mirrored towers.
Today they ran in a medium-sized canal, one about twenty-five paces across but tall enough that the three of them could stand on each other’s shoulders and still not reach the ceiling. About halfway up the walls, midwalks ran along both sides of the tunnel. They could run single file up there, but today they felt like going side-by-side, so they stayed on the bottom of the canal despite the dust they stirred up. It swirled around them, red with flecks of blue.
They couldn’t see the colors, of course, given that they only wore dim lamps. She knew the details from when this place blazed with light from torches set out by their circle. Their kith and kin. As a dust gang, they protected their circle, who in turn made a home for them all.
Sadness swept over Strider. They no longer had a full dust gang. Jasin had died, killed in the cave-in of a collapsing tunnel last year. Now they had only three.
Running at her side, Lamplight laid his hand on her arm. She nodded, and he nodded back, then withdrew his hand. They didn’t need touch to share their grief; it flowed from his mind to hers, just as it flowed to them both from Zee, their third, who ran on Strider’s other side.
We need new fourth, Lamp thought. Normally Strider only picked up his moods, but with thoughts this intense, she caught more.
A thought came from Zee, lighter, more fluid. Crinkles maybe.
Crinkles too young, Lamp thought. Baby.
Strider sent a silent laugh. Not baby. She twelve. Almost adult. But yah, too young. Besides, Crinkles had her own group, several other twelve-year-olds who’d someday protect their own circle. Crinkle’s sister Darjan would’ve been a good choice at seventeen, well into adulthood, younger than Jasin by four years, but savvy. Damn good fighter, and not just in what Bhaaj called “street rumbling,” though they had no streets here, only canals that had never carried water. As a Dust Knight, Darjan was working toward her first-degree black belt in tykado. Yah, she’d be perfect, except she already had her own gang.
Not get third fem, Lamp protested. Need man. Dryly he added, I outnumbered.
Strider smiled. He had a point. She knew of no dust gang without that balance, two women, two men. He even used a three-syllable word, outnumbered, to emphasize his point.
Then again, the word came in his thoughts, not his speech. Aloud, they used as few words as possible. Those with more than two syllables became jokes, or more rarely showed honor or emphasis. Sure, they thought in a more complex style, including words with many syllables, but they didn’t need to waste energy by saying all that talky-talky aloud. They felt what they meant in their moods.
Maybe Nic, she thought. He was working on his brown belt in tykado, and he could run like nobody’s business. He’d make a good addition to Coach Mason’s city-gang of runners, if anyone could convince him to join.
Jasin would’ve loved Mason’s team.
Strider ran harder, trying to outpace the grief. Lamp and Zee matched her speed, and together they sprinted in honor of Jasin’s memory.
After a while, they slowed again, steady and endless, running, running, running.
Nic not good fit, Zee eventually thought.
ypes called a Kyle-operator. He only felt moods a little, though, and he’d never picked up their thoughts. For all that they felt hollow without Jasin, having a fourth who didn’t fit would be even worse, like dying of thirst even as they stood in front of water.
A new sense came from Lamp, an unease that prickled up Strider’s back.
What? Strider asked.
Someone follows, Lamp thought.
More than one, Zee added.
Strider let her senses expand. Yah, she felt it, people creeping in the canal walls, moving through hidden passages that networked the stone. Drug punkers, she thought, pissed off. They didn’t need a bunch of raggedy-assed dealers sneaking around Dust Knight territory.
The attack came with no warning. Supposedly. Strider was ready. The punkers slipped out of cracks in the walls above, and two of them jumped down in front of her. In her side vision, she glimpsed more lunging at Zee and Lamp. Ho! A lot more!
With no pause, Strider grabbed one punker and hurtled her into the second. They shouted and attacked, using the rough-and-tumble. She easily countered, rolling one of the punkers over her hip in a tykado move and slamming her onto the ground amid clouds of dust. As the second punker barreled into her, a third grabbed her from behind, and a yet another one socked her in the stomach, so hard she doubled over with a grunt. Somewhere Lamp shouted and Zee groaned. Strider felt their fear; their attackers far outnumbered them.
Strider kept using tykado for the advantage it gave her, uncaring that half her moves were illegal. The hell with slick rules that could cost your life. She bashed the punkers any way that worked, but they kept coming, working her over. She found herself on her knees, choking as she gasped in dust-laden air. While three of them held her down, a woman in front of her drew back her arm, her fist clenched—
“Nahya!” a man shouted. “Stop!”
To Strider’s unmitigated surprise—and yah, that word deserved all five syllables—the punker in front of her froze, her fist high in the air. Strider looked past the gritty curls straggling into her eyes to the scene beyond. The punkers were more visible now in light from their tech-mech gauntlets. They all brandished the symbol of the Vakaar cartel on their clothes, a red orb with a white slash. One of them, a man of eighteen, stood on a rock stump. He looked familiar somehow.
“Not fight these three,” the guy told the punkers. “Friends.” He seemed startled, apparently just recognizing them now that he saw them in brighter light.
Harsh laughter rumbled through the other punkers, all eight of them. Add in the guy on the rock stump, and that made nine attackers.
“Not friends,” a woman of about seventeen said. “Dust Knights.”
“Maybe,” the man said. “But they runners. In Cries. On Mason team. We all on team.”
Ho! Now Strider recognized him. Dice Vakaar, heir to the cartel queen Hammerjan Vakaar. He was one of two punker kids who’d joined the track and field team. Incredibly, he put that even above beating the shit out of Dust Knights.
A grumble went through his punkers, and they shifted their feet, scowling. Then the three holding down Strider let her go, giving her a rough shove. Standing slowly, stepping back to keep everyone in sight, she gave a wary nod to Dice. He returned it, then motioned to the other punkers. With that, they took off, scrambling up the walls of the canal. In seconds they’d disappeared into the hidden byways of its walls.
“Shit,” Lamp muttered, getting back on his feet.
Zee came over to them. “Dice.”
“Yah.” Strider scowled. “Dice.”
“Felt his mind,” Lamp said. “He mooder. Like us.”
“Yah, I sense, too,” Zee said.
“Tough,” Strider said. “This our land. Punkers not belong.” She’d never known them to invade duster places this way. Her dust gang fought to protect their circle or to get food and water. Cartels fought to kill people. They left the dusters alone because it kept the balance; if war broke out between the gangs and the cartels, it could destroy the Undercity.
ter, more than anyone here in Dust Knight territory. The people they addicted to their shit would trade anything to get what they craved.
“Need warn Knights,” Strider said.
Damn it all to hell, Ruzik thought. They didn’t need this, the cartels destroying the balance that the gangs and punkers had lived by for centuries. The Dust Knights had risen out of the dust gangs, established with Bhaaj’s leadership, making it even riskier for the punkers to invade their territory. Yet here they’d come in force, ready to fight, maybe kill.
He sat on a rock stump in the cave he used for meetings while Strider and her gang reported the attack. Ruzik’s brother, Byte-2, sat on a sawed-off stalagmite. The third in their gang, the woman called Tower, leaned her muscled self against another rock formation. Just as Strider’s gang had one person missing, so did Ruzik’s, though for him it was temporary. His wife Angel had gone to her job with the Kyle Corps in the City of Cries.
Odd, that. Cries ignored his people if they stayed in the Undercity or threw them in jail for no damn reason if they went above. At least they used to. Now, with Mason’s team and Angel’s job, they were trickling out of the Undercity. The Kyle Corps insisted anyone who could mood-feel could join them. Of course no one here wanted their jobs. Slicks only offered life-threatening, menial labor to Undercity folk.
Except.
This Kyle Corps seemed different. They considered Angel’s job high-powered, even elite. Besides, someone had to spy on the slicks and figure out their sudden interest in the Undercity. Who better than Angel? Damn smart, that wife of his.
Strider’s gang had no such comfort for their loss. A year had passed since Jasin’s death, but nothing eased their grief. As much as they needed a fourth, finding someone whose Kyle abilities matched their strength wasn’t easy. Even in the Undercity where Kyle traits supposedly occurred at more than three thousand times normal human populations, few existed as strong as Strider, Lamp, and Zee. Ruzik understood; he, Angel, his brother, and Tower shared a similar bond.
“Not see why punkers invade us,” Strider was saying.
“Hungry, maybe,” Ruzik said. “They not as rich as before war.”
“Ass-bytes,” Lamp said. “Nine of them, three of us. We get more gangers, go hit back.”
“Nahya,” Ruzik said. “Not fight.” The cartel war from four years ago still remained vivid in his memory, how it had devastated the Undercity, killing people and collapsing two major canals, those “architectural wonders,” as city types called the ruins here. They’d cared more about the canals than the people. That was before they discovered those same people might be the most important resource they’d ever found.
“Cartels weak now,” Ruzik said.
“Not enough food,” Byte-2 said.
“Not enough good water,” Tower said.
Zee crossed her arms. “We need our food. Our water. Got less than them.”
“Used to be that way,” Strider spoke thoughtfully. “Now? Maybe not.”
Lamp scowled. “Nahya.”
“Mason gets us food,” Ruzik pointed out.
Zee spoke with disgust. “We not take char-i-tee.”
As much as Ruzik understood how they loathed handouts, his people needed good food and filtered water. Toxins saturated the water on this world with its failing terraforming, where the best places on the surface had become deserts and the rest of the world grew more hostile to human life every generation. Down here, chemicals and minerals in the rare underground grottos and streams poisoned anyone desperate enough to drink the untreated water.
“Not charity,” he told Strider. “Bargain. We run for Mason’s team. He give water and food.”
“Dice let us go,” Strider mused. “Say Mason’s team like circle.”
Ruzik motioned toward Tower and Byte-2. “We look into it.”
Strider nodded. “And we say if we learn more.”
at above-city types called social media meshes, except here the whispers were all verbal.
After Strider’s gang left, Ruzik sent Byte-2 and Tower to sleuth out if anyone else had rumbled with the cartels. It worried him. His gang protected the largest Undercity circle, including single adults, families who looked after children, and his best friend, Hack, a cyber-rider who could best any Cries tech with his genius. People in his circle tended to live longer, well into their twenties, even thirties. He meant for it to stay that way.
The odds for survival in all circles had improved in recent years, and even more since Mason started providing food to the Undercity athletes after practices. Vegetables and fruit. And steak! As much as the nutritionists who worked with Mason’s team cautioned against too much meat, Undercity athletes craved it. They hunted pico-lizards and mousites down here, but those were scant and stringy in their flesh.
At first, the rich Cries diet had made Ruzik queasy. Plants here lived mostly in the dark. If you cobbled together a power source, you could use LED lights to grow some species. Those helped provide food, also oxygen and humidity, but no way could they produce enough for a place this large. After stealing time on the Cries university meshes, he’d realized some of their plants survived in the dark by getting cozy with bacteria, taking energy from chemical reactions. Oxygen also came from algae that grew in the poisonous water, but humans couldn’t eat it. They did cultivate edible fungi, like the sweet-meat mushrooms that thrived in the dark. He loved the taste, especially when cooks in his circle grilled and spiced the delicacy.
Still, he had a lot to consider in his job as second in command for the Dust Knights. The plants alone couldn’t provide enough oxygen for everyone to breathe or take away all the carbon dioxide they produced. Their survival also relied on a vast network of ancient conduits that spread throughout the Undercity and circulated air from the desert above. These past years, he’d worked to strengthen the ranks of their rock-riders, the Undercity diggers who kept the ventilation systems in good repair. They had more than enough good air, but even with Mason’s help, they still barely had enough food. If the cartels stole their scant resources, they’d starve. They needed a better solution for circles and cartels both. No one wanted charity.
“Charity, hell,” Ruzik muttered. Until recent years, the Cries doctors had refused to treat his people, not even the most basic care everyone in the city received. Well, no more. The Undercity deserved the same resources that slicks took for granted. He and Angel had traveled to the planet Parthonia last year to help Bhaaj solve a case—and they’d found paradise. Pure water, free and unlimited. You needed only turn on a “faucet,” and out it came. Flowers, trees, bushes, and vines grew everywhere, fragrant and beautiful. Goddess, that such a place could exist.
Yet everywhere they’d gone, he’d heard shit about the Undercity, how his people were less than human, dirty, ugly, stupid, all homeless drug addicts and criminals. The Skolian Imperialate, a civilization that claimed thousands of worlds and habitats, had no idea about the true Undercity, the great beauty here. Yah, they also fought crushing poverty and drugs, but they needed resources to fix those problems, not demonization. They’d lived here for thousands of years, ignored and dismissed. They didn’t like Cries any more than Cries liked them; they kept to themselves, protecting their fragile culture against the outside universe. But that meant the rest of humanity knew nothing except the ugly stories that trickled out about the drug cartels, the only group in the Undercity with even scant offworld connections. His people had long ago become convenient villains for a star-spanning media.
Except then it all changed.
The military discovered the Undercity had something they wanted, something they needed desperately. Over a third of Ruzik’s people were full-fledged Kyle operators, carrying in their DNA certain neurological mutations that had become almost extinct among the rest of humanity—traits so valuable to the survival of the Skolian Imperialate that the authorities refused to let anyone know what existed here, lest that knowledge endanger their priceless Undercity resource.
Yah, charity be damned. It was time his people took their place among the vast, star-flung civilizations of humanity, one they belonged to just as much as anyone else.
Change was coming. ...
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