Someone calls, “What is it?”
I drop down from the ceiling.
A guard glances at me and smiles dopily. “Adreana,” he murmurs. He must think I’m the female assassin from the lobby. He slumps against the wall and slides down it.
Sounds of pounding feet grow near. I puncture more cans and toss them into the hallway. Billowing fog fills the air. Feet slow. Bodies hit the floor. When the fog clears, I peek my head out and draw it back fast. A dozen guards sit limply against the walls—some lie on the floor, weapons fallen haphazardly beside them. It’s rainbow fields forever out there.
Following the trail of bodies, I reach the door at the end of the corridor. No sounds come from the other side. Pulling out my fusionmag, I aim it at the door, and then, on second thought, I hide the weapon behind my back, and knock. The door opens partway. “You’re supposed to be in the lobby,” a tall, burly man says. I kick in the door. He stumbles back, drawing his fusionmag. I shoot him in the chest. His colleagues are gathered around a virtual screen watching a pre-trial training session. They draw weapons. I lift my fusionmag and pull the trigger in rapid succession. Bodies twist and fall like discarded puppets. I should feel bad, but I don’t. If I were here to kill Gabriel, they wouldn’t have stopped me because they were too busy entertaining themselves.
I bar the door and cautiously creep to the main apartment. It’s empty. In the master bedroom, I find Gabriel alone, passed out on the bed. His dark hair is in disarray. Cadaverous eyes rimmed in dark circles sit atop his hollowed cheeks. His elegant silk shirt is open, revealing his sunken chest. His rolled-up sleeves reveal scabs and bruises. He trembles. He’s either done too much or not enough.
I tug the scarf and mask from my face. “Gabriel,” I whisper. Tears prickle my eyes. I touch his shoulder and try to rouse him. He finally opens his eyes and squints at me.
“Who are you?” he whispers.
I pull off the white wig and glasses. “Fabriana Friday,” I murmur through my tears.
“Are you here . . . to save . . . the world?” he asks weakly. It’s something he would’ve said when we were kids.
“I’m here to rescue you, Solomon Sunday.” I touch his hair. It’s brittle. He doesn’t reply, just continues to tremble.
I speak into the wrist communicator. “I have him, Balmora. I need a superfast airship.”
“You’re getting a delivery hover.” Balmora’s voice rings through the wrist communicator. “Creamy Crellas. Side alley—below your position. Can you get there now?”
“We’ll get there.”
The extra glove and leaded swatch I brought with me slide easily over Gabriel’s left hand, blotting out his moniker. I roll my brother onto his side, and then reach for his belt, sliding it from the loops of his trousers. Undoing my own belt, I hook them together. I thread the long belt behind Gabriel’s waist. Lying next to him like a spoon, so that my back is pressed against his chest, I secure the belt around my waist so he’s strapped to my back. Reaching behind me, I lift his arms and hoist them over my shoulders. The bruises on my back and chest ache. So does my arm, but I ignore the pain.
When I stand, Gabriel comes with me, his dead weight distributed to my shoulders and back. Hunching over, I carry him to the empty balcony. We inch out onto it, and then I lean Gabriel against the wall, holding him there with my back against his chest. I pluck the clerk’s moniker from my glove and drop it on the balcony. I peel back the glove covering my moniker, and menus spring up from the silver sword. I may not be able to communicate with it, but I can activate the hoverdiscs on the bottoms of my boots. I program them for rapid descent and smooth my glove over my moniker again. I clutch Gabriel’s arms. He isn’t very heavy, but it’s awkward to move with him on my back. Disregarding gracefulness, I climb over the railing of the balcony and leap off.
The cool wind whistling past my ears deadens the shouts from the henchmen on the rooftop. They don’t shoot, probably because Gabriel is shielding me. A few of them jump from the peak of the dorsal fin. My brother doesn’t move. He’s barely conscious.
Near the ground, the hoverdiscs activate and slow our fall. When I halt just above the sidewalk, inertia makes it feel as if my kneecaps will explode. Wincing, I look around for the alley. Sinister figures using gravitizers land on the avenue behind us. Black-clad, they hold rifles that could blow holes through Gabriel and me. But none of them fires. They pause, speaking into their monikers. I use my hoverdiscs to skate in the opposite direction.
They pursue us, but they’re on foot, so they fall behind. Rounding a corner, I nearly run into a hovering delivery craft idling in the alleyway. Animated characters made to look like crellas dance in a three-dimensional display of jouncing revelry around the perimeter of the hovertruck. Crella creatures bathe in chocolate streams that morph into showers of glaze and sprinkles.
For a second, I think I must have been sprayed by Hazy Daze-99, because this is my biggest fantasy, but then a man with a thick unibrow and a double chin calls to me through the window of the hovertruck: “Get in.” He points his thumb to the rear of the vehicle. The truck lurches forward, picking up speed as it moves through the alley.
“No!” I whimper. The back door of the craft slides open. I force my legs to move, skating behind it, my thighs burning. The holographic crella creatures wave banners and march next to me. Clenching my teeth, I lurch for the opening. As we dive through the doorway, the driver triggers the hatch, and it falls closed, hiding us within.
Small lights near the floor illuminate the inside of the hovertruck. Steel racks of ice-cream-filled crellas line the walls to the ceiling. In the truck’s crisp refrigeration, I lay on the floor beside Gabriel, our breath huffing in white wisps. I can’t tell if my brother shakes from the cold or from detoxification. The belts cut into my flesh. Unhooking the clasp, I free us from them. Gabriel tumbles away, curling into a ball on the floor.
“Gabriel, are you okay?” I ask.
“Where . . . am I?” he whispers.
“You’re in a hovertruck. I’m taking you to Balmora.” His forearms are so thin it makes me want to cry.
“Should let me die,” he says between clenched teeth.
My heart throbs painfully. “I’m not letting you die.” Peeling off my jacket, I lay it over him. We take a corner, and Gabriel rolls across the floor. I lift his head, stabilizing him against my shoulder. In my other hand, I hold a fusionmag pointed at the back of the hovertruck, in case the guards catch up to us.
I don’t remember the last time I was this close to my brother. Maybe when he stopped my mother from killing me on my Transition Day? That’s how it goes, though. The Fates Republic won’t allow us to be a family, using propaganda and their stupid hysteria-eliciting rhetoric to sow suspicion between siblings—casting doubt over secondborns’ intentions. Anger heats my face. A tear slips over my lashes. They should’ve left us alone as kids—let us be each other’s friend. Everybody always pointed out his golden sword instead, like it was the reason for him not to love me. But Gabriel loved me anyway, and it destroyed him. I can see that now.
Tears like I’ve never allowed myself course down my face. The Fates Republic keeps selling us the biggest lie of all—that we’re nothing to each other. Enemies. Now we’re all just liars.