Icarus

By Nina MacNamara

Man versus machine. Anarchy versus order. Power versus love.

Centuries of war have ravaged the world. Those left are sheltered under domed cities -- like the decrepit city of Kennedy -- but they're not really protected. Class warfare wages. The lower classes are kept down by the upper class that strives to eventually replace them with easily-controlled artificial intelligence. The man who created this AI is Jerrid Fieger, the most powerful man in Kennedy. 

Citizens by day and terrorists by night, the Project is the only force fighting against this takeover. Ayaku was once the principal dancer for the city ballet; Riley, an acrobat for the circus. Flake and Copse were computer programmers. They and the rest of the Project want the man who created synthetic robots to suffer for their losses. But an intense drug called called Clout hinders their revenge on him -- a drug so addictive, it causes them to continue using it long after their skin has turned green, and their insides have begun to turn to mush.

West is different, however. He doesn't fight for a lost career. He fights for the woman he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gray Cat Books
• Release date: Sep 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781536547535

Book preview

Foreword

Welcome to the re-release of Icarus! Whether you're picking it up for the first time or are enjoying again, I'd like to thank you for taking time to purchase and read my debut novel. It has been awhile since its initial epub, so I'd like to take this time to write a new foreword explaining a few changes I've made to manuscript. Let me describe these changes from the inside out:

First, some editing mistakes. Being an independent writer with a day job, I do not have the resources to hire a professional editor and have been largely relying on the kindness of former professors (and current spouses). It is incredibly hard to edit your own work, I've found. I miss every other typo, I skim over paragraphs, or just completely not catch minor but obvious issues in spelling, capitalization, and grammar. Thankfully, with this 2016 edition, those are largely gone and your next (or first) reading experience should be distraction free.

Next, the cover. It is par for the course to release a new cover for new editions of books in the print world, so I decided to do the same. This 2016 cover features the painting Landscape with the Fall of Icarus attributed to Belgian artist Pieter Bruegel. I love how the working world continues on around that tiny pair of drowning legs, disinterested in how they came to fall into the sea and pushed off to the side almost out of view. I'm curious about what happened to this world where a winged man could fall from the sky but no one notices or cares. I hope my readers also go into my book thinking the same thing -- what happened in this world and why do so few people care?

Finally, and most importantly, is my name change. I've decided to drop the nom de plume of Nina Scaletti and go by my real name about 2 years ago. I chose to do this for 2 reasons. First, I discovered that I did not want to separate my writing life with my personal life. I was proud of my books and wanted to encourage people who knew me to read them. Having a pen name, while certainly a choice I support in other writers, was not for me any more. Secondly, it was just time. I had been going by Nina Scaletti online and off for 15 years and felt like I had outgrown it. Initially I picked Scaletti because it looked pretty and rolled off the tongue; but more people knew me by my real name. (Don't get me wrong, I added that extra A to give me a bit more edge. No reason to not stand out, right?)

Making the changes to the manuscript, the cover, and my name would not be possible without the ease and flexibility of ePublishing. Though this was a long time coming since the first release and doing so required a moderate amount of work. I am proud of my new changes, proud of my little novel, and especially proud to be an independently published author.

-Nina MacNamara, Sept 2016

Chapter One

(1)

That soft, milled-powder scent of burning Clout roused West from the depths of slumber. It clung to his nostrils and crept down his throat until he could taste its velvety texture in his mouth, on his tongue. He flicked away the sleep crust from his eyes with a knuckle and raised his head.

A green-gray haze had filled the bedroom while he lay sleeping. Unable to focus, he blinked twice and fumbled with the night stand, bumping into the cold marble of the mortar and knocking his eyeglasses to the floor.

West went to reach for them but found his other arm immovable, dead. He turned to see that Ayaku had fallen asleep right at the crook of his elbow and cut off the circulation. She stirred, but didn't wake up when he liberated himself from under her yards of hair. With his good arm, he pulled the covers up over her shoulders and went to work massaging blood back into his arm.

A quiet voice coughed from the other side of the room. Oops—sorry. Did I wake you?

He saw movement from a blurry figure on the floor, hidden among the towers of cardboard boxes, piles of laundry, and fragrant gray smoke. West squinted and twisted over the side of the bed to pick up his glasses. They had landed lenses-down in his dirty underwear.

He slid them on, but clear vision did nothing to improve the state of the room. He blinked repeatedly to train his eyes to the sting, the burn, the familiar bite of Clout smoke. Through the cloudiness, he saw Riley—twig-like legs bent over the edge of an overstuffed bean-bag chair, pale arms holding the long-stemmed pipe up to her mouth. She might have been smiling. Or grimacing.

Sorry if I made too much noise, she apologized again.

He cleared his throat and the velvety softness broke apart. What time is it? he asked, his voice raspy and dry.

Riley fanned the smoke away from her face and squinted at the clock-radio on the dresser. Six-thirty?

Mmm, he murmured, his head fuzzy again. I've got to be up in an hour.

I'll wake you up.

Don't forget now. He sunk back into the warmth of blankets and body heat.

I won't.

West paused, watching Riley lift the pipe to her lips. From the floor, she produced a lighter.

He lay back down and stared at the ceiling. A fresh burst of Clout wafted over to his flaring nostrils.

She's going to forget.

West closed his eyes again.

(2)

Sounds, not smells, awakened him the second time. The room had cleared of smoke and he could see thanks to passing out with his glasses on.

Ayaku was awake and getting dressed. He caught only a glimpse of her bare back as she pulled down her tank top. One arm pulled her mass of hair out from the neck-hole; she bent over and picked up a tattered blue sweater off the floor.

Hey, he greeted her, his throat still dry.

She glanced at him. 'Morning, she replied. Her cadence was chilly and clipped—her usual demeanor. She buttoned her sweater up to her chest and stepped into a pair of pants.

What time is it?

She answered without looking: Eight o'clock.

Fuck. He rolled over. I'm late.

"You—we —didn't get to sleep until three. She rose to tie her pants and caught site of Riley in the bean bag chair. What happened there?"

West sat up. Across the room, Riley lay sprawled on the bean bag chair, legs spread and arms akimbo. Her face turned to one side and her jaw hung open. The pipe on her chest rose and fell with each deep breath she took. I told her not to let me sleep in, he explained.

You're up now, she said, winding her hair into a ponytail.

Are you coming to Droz and Eamon's party this evening?

I don't know.

You don't know?

"I don't know. She gave him a sharp look and opened the bedroom door. I'll tell you if I am, ok?"

West climbed out of bed. With one hand flattened against the wall he steadied himself into his slippers. He searched for his bathrobe and frowned at the mess. Boxes. Posters. Piles and piles of dirty clothes. He found his robe lying underneath Riley's jeans across a box marked Dishes. By the time he had wrapped himself in his bathrobe, Ayaku had left the bedroom.

The kitchen lay in worse shape than the bedroom. Dirty dishes spanned from the sink to the counter tops and over to the card table in the corner. Plastic spoons covered in tomato paste sat next to cups sticky with green tea and ginseng extract. A saucepan rested on the range between the eyes with weeks-old pasta clinging to it. As he crossed the linoleum, the soles of his slippers nearly took the floor up with him. West wrinkled his nose at a foul smell, perhaps from a mysterious black puddle calcified on one of the silver folding chairs.

I need to clean up. Muttering, he stepped over a bunched welcome mat to get into the living room. This place is a mess.

You've been busy, haven't had time to unpack. Ayaku had found her jacket, hat and gloves and had put them on in the time it took him to get across the room. Without looking at him, she took a seat on the couch and shoved her feet into the ugly pair of mules she adored so much. A small pile of newspapers slid off the cardboard box next to her, but she did not seem to notice. Or care. Get Riley to do it.

Riley?

Yeah. She's going to ask you if she can stay with you for a few days. We talked about it last night. She's having problems with Petra and Zoe. Ayaku gave him a pointed look. Tell her if she wants to stay here, she has to clean this place up. And by cleaning, she added, I don't mean tossing everything out onto the street for the city to dump it into its cesspool. I want organic material in its place, plastics in the blue recycle bin, the cardboard broken down into...what?

West stood, caught between an overturned armchair and a coat rack, grinning at her. You're adorable when you're authoritative.

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't hide a crooked smile. I gotta go. I'll try to be there tonight.

West shrugged. Yeah. I'll be fine. I'll get Riley to clean up in here, not a problem.

"Don't tell her I said she had to, this was all your idea. Ayaku stood and looked at her watch. Good—plenty of time to catch the seven-forty-five. She raised her eyes to look at him. He noticed they shined. I love you," she told him, and sounded genuine.

He blushed. I love you too.

To get to the door, Ayaku kicked aside an empty shoe box with a pointed toe. She continued clearing a path for herself, lifting her legs and bending her knees with familiar grace and poise. A sad thought occurred to him as he watched her—two years ago those legs would have been tiptoeing and leaping across a stage in a crowded amphitheater. Now they were stepping across acres of filth and squalor.

She didn't notice him staring. She just plucked her backpack from the coffee table and slung it over her shoulder. When she reached for the door, she paused and turned back to him.

West.

He raised an eyebrow.

Be careful today, she asked. Don't overdo anything.

Overdo anything? he repeated, sliding his hands into his pockets. Why would I do such a thing?

Because I know you and I know you like to overdo things. She leaned on the doorknob, allowing the painful first rays of sunlight inside. Don't do it. Not today. Ok?

I don't know what you're talking about.

I mean it, West.

I'll be careful.

West, goddamn it. She shook her head, glaring. I don't want this to be a disaster. She added. Like the Arsenal.

The Arsenal wasn't a disaster because I overdid anything.

Please, West?

He chuckled. I would never do anything that I would later regret. I promise you that.

Ayaku heaved a disgusted sigh. You're an asshole, She swung open the screen door, suddenly aggravated. I'll see you tonight, she added stepping outside. Oh, and remind Riley not—

I will, but I think she knows better. He smiled. "So I will see you tonight?"

I've got to go, she said quickly.

"Ayaku."

'Bye!

The door retracted against the house with a loud, vibrating racket, shaking the trailer on its cement feet. West winced and turned back to the kitchen.

(3)

The bathroom needed the most cleaning. Black mold and white mold waged mycotoxic war with each other on the ceiling while little mushrooms grew out of the tile grout in the shower. The hot water was only lukewarm and the water stream alternated from constant to sputtering. But he showered anyway. No landlord meant no easy fixes. He had to make do with what he had. Also, it was the only working bathroom in the house.

When he finished, he stood at the sink, clad in only a pink bath towel around his waist. He stared at himself in the mirror: a two-days growth sprouted from his angular jaw; his hair had begun curling up around his ears and the nape of his neck; a black patch of fur made its presence known between his eyebrows. West leaned forward to examine himself in the mirror and made sure to pinch and squeeze at the blackhead on the tip of his nose.

A full minute into extracting, a knock came at the door. I'm in here, he barked, wiping his fingers on the rim of the sink. I'll be out in a sec'.

'K—no rush, I just...I gotta...I mean, your other bathroom...

"I said, in a second."

He heard Riley give a quieter, less chipper response and move away from the bathroom door. West sighed and parted the hanging panels of the towel enough to take a piss in the sink—the toilet stood too far out of his reach. Afterward, he dropped the towel on the floor and sought his bathrobe once again. This time he found it in the place he left it: on the hook over Ayaku's scarlet, embroidered bathrobe and matching nightgown. He kicked the towel away, threw on his bathrobe, and unlocked the door. It yawned open with a squeal.

It's all yours, he called out.

Riley darted inside the bathroom so quickly he barely had time to see her. She chirruped a breathless 'thank you' and slammed the door behind her. The old rally posters on the wall rippled.

What is it with women slamming doors? he thought aloud.

West navigated the bedroom to the kitchen with little trouble. On the table, he spied a small, teardrop-shaped device, blinking passively up at him. He examined the glowing screen; he had missed two messages, both from Flake.

The first was a terse, be here at 9.

West looked at the clock on the broken microwave. I'm not going to make that time.

The second was a more direct, wake the fuck up west.

Sorry 'bout that, West. Riley's voice interrupted his thoughts. Your other bathroom is...um, well you know.

He made a discreet sleight-of-hand maneuver and dropped the Gen2 into his pocket. Riley stood in the doorway, hovering between the kitchen and bedroom. She chewed on her lower lip, looking guilty. She still had not dressed in anything other than her pink camisole and boxers—his boxers. Her feet were bare—not a healthy idea in this house, but it didn't matter. He eyed her chest. As usual she had opted to go braless, and the hard tips of her small, apple-sized breasts poked through the thin fabric of her camisole. She was cute, though—not tall and willowy like Ayaku, but small and spindly like a spider. A body for tumbling though flaming hoops or bouncing on trampolines.

He gave her a cool smile. It's all right, Riley, he assured her. I'm sorry 'bout the mess here. I've been busy as you know.

She glanced around the kitchen, running her hand through her hair. Ayaku wasn't upset when she got up, was she?

"Why would she...? Oh, no. She was fine. She—we —had a great time last night."

Yeah, me too. Not that I remember much. She giggled. Last night was pretty wild, wasn't it?

He thought back for a moment and tried to remember the details. The Clout he remembered. Everything else went fuzzy. Yeah, pretty wild, he agreed. Do you need help finding your clothes? I think I remember you tossing them on the floor somewhere—

Oh, I'll find them. She sucked on the inside of her cheek, looking thoughtful. Um, West?

He raised an eyebrow.

Riley pushed her messy hair off her forehead. Her wide-set eyes refused to stay on anything for too long. Um...can I stay with you? Just for a few weeks?

Ayaku said days, not weeks. Here? With me?

Yeah. Just until I can find a job. She looked down at her feet. Things have been slow since the circus shut down. Like Ayaku, Riley had a job as a performer. An acrobat in the city circus. The circus had its last show a year ago. The synthoids picked up where their human counterparts left off, but it wasn't enough to draw the crowds. I put in my name in the employment pool, but nothing's called back yet. Someone said Java Sips was hiring humans so... She shrugged. I promise I'll pay rent when I get a job.

West frowned. I thought you were staying with Petra and Zoe.

I am. But...well, Petra wants her sewing room back. Riley blushed. I broke her sewing machine. It was an accident but...

While she stammered, West felt his Gen2 buzz in his bathrobe pocket. Nodding, West held up his hands to cut her off. I understand. He knew his ex pretty well, and Petra hated to have her sewing space invaded. He sighed. I'll tell you what. He spread his hands, gesturing to the room around them. "You can stay as long as you want if you clean up this house, ok? Don't worry about rent, just make this place livable."

Riley brightened. Really? You'll do that for me?

Yeah, but don't forget—

She bounced—oh, did she bounce—and clapped her hands in delight. She stepped forward and leaned in to kiss his cheek. Thanks West! You're the best! I'll get started right away! On cue, she yanked a old pop bottle off the counter. It made a horrible sound as she peeled it off.

He remembered what Ayaku asked of him before she left. Riley.

Yeah? She pulled a sponge from the sink.

Last night?

Yeah—I already know what you're going to ask. She smiled and drew her fingers across her mouth, zipping it. Secret's safe with me. And the next time too. She giggled.

She was annoying, but not obnoxious. West walked past her. I'm going to get dressed. He closed the bedroom door behind him before he could hear her chipper response. He sat on the bed and withdrew his Gen2.

fuckin hell west its almost nine oclock. where the fuck are you?

He looked over at the mortar and pestle on the nightstand. Inside, he found the remaining bit of Clout powder and residue, but no succulent frond. Where did it go? It was there last night...

Riley.

He sighed and looked back at his Gen2. With one hand, he thumbed out a reply of i'm going to be late and with the other scraped a fingernail around the bottom of the mortar. With a solid sniff, it went up his right nostril.

(4)

Ayaku rode her bike up to the ticket window and stepped off before trotting to a quick stop. She dug into a side pocket on her backpack and removed four large coins. When she placed the money on the ticket counter, the clerk shook his head and pointed to a new sign on the window.

Six marks, he said, pushing the coins back, for bike storage and a train ticket.

Ayaku's jaw dropped. "Six? It was four last week!"

The price has changed, the clerk retorted.

How the hell am I supposed to get to work?

You have enough for the airbus.

It's slow, she seethed. And I'll be riding with fifty other people who all want to go to the ground-breaking ceremony.

The clerk shrugged. Then you're shit out of luck, girlie, he told her. You want free transportation? Take your bike. While you still can.

Ayaku growled. As slow as the airbus was, she couldn't pedal any faster. With a sigh, she pushed the money back across the counter. Fine. One airbus pass. And bike storage.

The tunnels were pulsing with controlled chaos: people walking from train depots to the tunnel exits, having just finished the night shift; others walking from the tunnels to the train depots to begin the day shift. They filed in and out like ants around a picnic lunch, carrying bags, briefcases, purses and other extensions of themselves on their arms or backs. Ayaku could only watch out of the corner of her eye and join the monotonous, passionless marching.

Halfway down the INDUSTRIAL DISTRICT tunnel, three malfunctioning maintenance bots came bumbling across the train tracks. They were each spitting out strings of receipts and warning patrons to take one per customer. The crowd in front of Ayaku ignored them, and Ayaku tried to do the same. One of the bots, the words REGENCY/INDUSTRIAL stenciled onto its chest, stopped right in front of her as she was about to move on. Its head malfunctioned and spun around four or five times before continuing on its way.

Ayaku watched the machine cross the tracks again and tightened her scarf around her neck. A chill came ripping in from the EDUCATION DISTRICT tunnel and slapped her hard in the face, enough to make her eyes water. This morning it was cold. This afternoon it might be warm. Or sweltering. Or still cold but rainy too. It depended on how poorly the dome's weather mechanism was working. When the city fired its human workers, the weather stopped being predictable. Bots were predictable: predictable in that they never worked.

Ayaku walked past the platform she had climbed every day for the past year. Instead of boarding the Financial/Industrial district train to the print shop, Ayaku made a right and took the Park Kent/Downtown Kennedy tunnel to the airbus platform.

Three uniformed guards—two men and a woman—in black pea coats and red arm bands gave her cause to slow down. They stood around a grizzled, bug-eyed homeless man sitting against the tunnel wall, laughing as the man babbled loudly and unintelligibly. She couldn't tell the man's age—he could have been thirty, he could have been fifty, but it didn't matter. A freedman always looked decades older than he or she was. Hard time in the Prisons would do that to anyone. Years of being out on the street, unable to work or rent property would only add to it. Daily harassment by red-cards—the uniformed guards standing around him—was the final straw.

Ayaku turned her head as one of the male guards unzipped his pants and urinated in the freedman's face. Louder, crueler laughing drowned out the man's gargling. She had no urge to help anymore—those days had long passed. The guilt stayed, however. But what could she do? How could she help? That man was a freedman. The guards were red-cards. And she was directly in the middle—a helot. A confrontation with a red-card only brought trouble.

She had had her share of scuffles with red-cards before: loitering where she wasn't supposed to be loitering, eating something where she wasn't supposed to be eating, or even seeming like she might become violent. In every single instance, she fought with herself not to scream and throw punches and get herself thrown into the Prisons. And despite feeling as though she had betrayed her own integrity, every time a red-card stopped her she smiled, apologized and swore never to repeat the action again. There was something absurd about being told that she seemed violent. She seemed like she had violence on her mind and planned on hurting someone. She bit back her laughter, though couldn't hide her smile—perhaps that's what saved her and kept her out of the Prisons. When she swore she wouldn't seem like she had violence on her mind again, they smiled back at her and let her go.

An airborne security bot, no bigger than a softball, came barreling down the tunnel. Ayaku backed away just in time—it would have caved in her skull had she not. Shrieking, the bot looped and spiraled until it collided with the stone wall and shattered into beeping, sparking pieces. The three red-cards harassing the freedman witnessed that spectacle, threw their heads back and laughed, pointing at their own party's design inadequacy.

Ayaku rubbed her head and kept walking. She left the tunnel and proceeded into the bright, albeit artificial, sunlight.

The airbus platform was crowded. She had no room to climb the stairs, as there were too many people waiting to climb on. Some even gathered beneath the platform, chatting excitedly to each other. Ayaku tried not to listen, but caught the words ground-breaking ceremony and human-powered factory.

That factory is going to build thousands of synthoids to take even more human jobs. And they're all excited about it.

She stepped away from the throng of excitement to calm her buzzing head. She needed a cigarette—her lips and tongue tingled with the need. With the airbus still in transit, she had time to paw into her coat pocket for her pack and her lighter.

As she lit her cigarette, a pair of boys in school uniforms caught her attention. She paused, cupping the flame of her lighter and watched them walk up to a sapling—one of only a couple of saplings in the Industrial District—and set their backpacks on the ground beside it. She lowered her lighter, watching closely as the boys withdrew a stack of bound papers, a hammer and—

Nails!

Ayaku choked back a shriek and the cigarette fell from her mouth. One boy held a sheet of paper from the stack against the tree, the other posed to hammer a nail through it into the sapling.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Her rage propelled her at alarming speed toward the two boys. She grabbed the hammer from the kid and swung him around to face her. You weren't going to nail untreated paper to a tree, were you? There are only fifty trees in this whole fucking city and you're going to maim them all. You..."

The boys stared up at her, wide-eyed and pimple-faced. Neither one of them could pass for much older than fourteen or fifteen judging from their complexions and height. She looked at their uniforms and saw a red patch sewn into their jackets—a Kennedy Day emblem, she concluded. Red-card children. She could have her hands cut off just for touching them.

Judging by their horror, they didn't know that. Ayaku swallowed, trying to feel tall in front of her captives. She licked her lips and lowered the hammer to her side. "You should never nail paper to trees, she explained, her tone far less aggressive now. These saplings aren't...strong enough to hold them up. The bark will eat through untreated paper. Lies, of course, but they'd never know. She motioned for the stack of papers from the other boy. Let me see that paper to make sure."

The boys looked at each other before handing Ayaku the stack.

She recognized the typeface upon flipping the poster over—Droz created it with a tablet and stylus last week. His brash, unkempt letters formed the word 'Project Atlas' over top of their logo—her logo, that took weeks to sketch and re-sketch. She was a terrible artist, but Droz had turned it into something passable. Below the silhouette of a bleeding Earth was obnoxious, center-aligned text:

Galt is Dead—Long Live Galt

The weight of the world is but ours!

Live life or love it. That is your choice.

Act. Think. Be. Speak.

Where will you be when the Earth falls?

Ayaku felt a cold sweat on her neck. She passed the posters back to the boys.

Yes, I was right, she said. This paper is acid free. Tree sap will eat through it. You're better off nailing them to doors. She gave the hammer back. Or slip them into mail boxes. But keep them away from trees.

The boys looked confused.

Off with you now, she said, shooing them with her hands. Go to school. Don't let any truant officers in the tunnel catch you.

The boys took off.

She rolled her eyes at the absurdity. Someone had recruited red-card children to hanging up posters. Who? It couldn't have been Droz. Droz printed the posters. Flake? Flake never left his apartment. Yet somehow two truants had a stack of their posters—posters with radical literature on them—and were about to nail them to trees. Droz would never give an order like that. Flake might; he cared less about trees than she did. But would he specifically instruct red-card children to do that?

Flake was a man of many talents. And a lot of mystery.

In spite of that exchange with the boys, no one in the crowd had seen them even after growing in size. Ayaku sighed and returned to her quiet spot away from the platform. She located her abandoned cigarette stuck in the crack between the slabs of cement. Squatting, she plucked it from the ground, stuck it between her lips, and sought for her lighter.

Success. Still crouched, Ayaku took a well-needed drag into her lungs. A smooth puff of used smoke gushed from her nostrils.

Where will you be when the Earth falls?

The airbus came to a wheezy stop above the platform. It hovered over the landing stop, hissing and sighing like an enraged teakettle. Ayaku raised her head and watched it begin its slow, rickety descent to the platform. Red lights on the warning poles flashed, giving the crowd nearby the alarm to step out of the way. The airbus landed with as much smoothness as its arrival.

For my sake, Ayaku remarked, rising, I hope to be far, far away.

Chapter Two

(1)

Flake's apartment, a single loft in Park Kent —also called the freedmen's district—served as the Project's headquarters. It was a good location, too: halfway between West's trailer and Industrial district, and two miles from the research Labs. Because he was already half-an-hour late, he biked to Flake's apartment. He felt his Gen2 buzzing with messages in his pocket the entire ride over.

Flake, the brains behind the Project, lived on the sixth floor of an abandoned walk-up, though the front entrance had long since been boarded up. The only window not nailed shut or flocked over opened out to the fire escape—the group's only method of entry. He propped his bike against the brick wall and picked up a handful of gravel to pitch at the window.

After a few misses and even fewer hits, the flocked-over window six storeys up slid open. A narrow face poked out and scowled.

It's nine-thirty, Copse said.

Riley slept over, West called. Send down the ladder, you're gonna attract spidermoths.

Copse's skinny arm reached out and flicked a metal latch on the fire escape. The ladder came sliding down. Hurry up, Flake's mad at you. He disappeared into the room, slamming the window behind him.

West rolled his eyes and began scaling the ladder. On the sixth floor, he crouched and climbed through the unlocked window.

He caught the faint scent of lemon-tinged cleaning agents and Clout in the room as he straightened, as if Copse and Flake had given the one-room apartment a once-over before he got there. But other than the scent, the room looked the same as it had always been: The floors glinted under his dirty boots, set off by the halogen lamps decorating the brick walls. Flake's desks ran along the adjacent wall, blocking the only door out of the apartment. There was a bathroom somewhere among the filing cabinets and tightly-packed bookshelves, but knowing Flake's refusal to leave his chair, West assumed that bucket by Flake's bed had been a chamber pot before it held dirty mop water.

Flake turned in his chair as West dusted his sweatpants free of soot and grime. Finally, he snapped, looking up from patching the bleeding wounds on his knee stumps. What took so long?

Riley stayed the night last night—wanted seconds. And thirds. He smirked and shut the window. You scratchin' again, Flake?

Flake reminded West of a sausage cooked too long in a microwave—plump, glistening, ready to explode if poked. His jowls shook when he spoke, his gut had spread over his thighs. The arms of his office chair had snapped off recently, allowing his sides to spill over. I scraped them on an exposed nail, he said, tapping the bandages.

Liar, Copse spoke up from a pile of pillows on the floor. I caught him scratching when I came in.

Shut up, Flake snapped.

So, Riley, huh? Copse grinned at West. He moved back and forth when he spoke, like an excited child with a secret. Not usually your type. She's a bit dumb for you.

West bristled. She's a sweet girl, he replied. It's nothing serious.

I'm just saying...scrape the barrel much? He grinned more. His blackened fingernails drummed on the floor beside him.

I am NOT defending myself to this asshole. Instinctively, West frowned. The hackles on the back of his neck stood up whenever the kid spoke. Copse was jittery and excitable. Copse was chatty and nasal. He blinked too much. He snapped his fingers when he couldn't think of a word. Every time West saw him, Copse was worse.

When did I first notice? West remembered being patient if only indifferent to Copse. But recently, West's indifference had evolved into raging hatred. But when?

Four months ago...

Sure you can handle this, Copse? West crossed his arms. You seem a bit on edge.

Nah, I'm fine. Just happy to be back in the game! He pumped his arms like he was running in place and not sitting on his ass in the middle of the floor. First demonstration since the Arsenal. Can't wait to get out there!

All you have to do is type in the security codes at the terminal.

I know. I've known for months. Copse raised an eyebrow and exposed more of his rotted, yellow teeth. "Hey, I can do it. I'm not the incompetent one. At least I get to places on time."

West glowered. Stop. Fucking. Grinning at me...

Shut up—both of you. Flake typed at his terminal, his back to both of them. And come here. You'll like this.

One of his many terminal screens flickered gray and black until the fuzzy image of an airlimo appeared. The airlimo sat idle beneath a flapping canvas awning and outside a pair of thick doors. At either door's side stood an armed guard. West recognized the location. Pigfuck's house, he said, squinting. You tapped the security feed?

Just the outside. Flake crossed his arm, smug. He's going to leave any minute for the ground-breaking ceremony. You oughtta get moving, Copse.

Copse stood and stretched. The hem of his shirt rode high over his gaunt stomach. West noticed a dark discoloration around the man's navel. Copse caught him staring and dropped his arms. I burned myself, he muttered, turning away.

West tried to look at Flake, but he had also turned away.

Copse pulled a pair of coveralls off a hook on the wall and began zipping himself into it. Where we gonna meet afterward? he asked, scratching the back of his neck. Here?

Flake didn't turn around. West's place.

No—Riley's there. And it's a mess. West watched Copse continue to scratch. He thought for a moment. How about that coffee shop in the Merchant's district?

Java Sips? Copse thought about it. Yeah, sounds good.

No. Flake finally turned away from his terminal screen to face them. Split up and go into hiding in the area. Don't meet up.

"Fieger will have the trains and airtransports shut down as soon