Chapter Four-A

  Malory woke, years older, to an embrace that wasn’t memories of her dead mother, the ever-present phantom of a murderer, or the sweat of misplaced panic. Instead, Nadia’s doll face was snuggled into the small of her neck. Each gentle breath tickled smooth skin and sent electric chills to the pit of her stomach. She wanted to stay there forever. Her arm was numb, but she didn’t care; she focused on the warmth, the closeness, the steady rise and fall of a chest that belonged to the girl she loved until her bladder threatened to explode. She unwrapped herself with practiced movements and was glad Nadia was a heavy sleeper, whenever she actually slept. Mal slipped into the hall and headed for the bathroom with steady steps. The other orphans were beginning to wake, and she was happy to beat the competition to shower. When she entered, she stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror—the vestiges of malnutrition and sleep deprivation were still there, hidden under the surface, but her smile spoke of confidence, of a future, of possibilities free from the boot of oppressive poverty and unfeeling corporate greed. She accepted the way she looked, and the cold water did little to ruin her mood.

  When her shower ended, she walked back to Nadia’s room wearing a towel, long black hair dripping rivulets down her scarred back. She’d come to enjoy the pattern the whip had left, the way it represented friends, their safety, a chance stolen by their own desperate ingenuity—each branch represented a different possibility: university classes, a job repping General Sciences Peripheral products to wealthy clientele, or dangerous mercenary gigs in Purgatory, anything free from the eternal downtrodden to gang enforcer pipeline. On her way, she found Martin and Spencer in their usual places in the living room, far too animated for the early morning. She had a brief flashback to whispers over their black-market pistol, the way they’d kept it hidden until the fated shooting, but she shoved the thought aside; they were all armed now, anyway.

  “What’s got you two so worked up?” she asked. Her feet left wet prints on the perennial stained floor.

  “Oscar’s gone,” Martin said. His voice had deepened over time until it finally matched his giant frame.

  “The Black Hands made him a full member yesterday,” Spencer added. The heist they’d passed off as a unique supply donation had done little for his stick-thin frame and gangly limbs.

  “Oh,” she said. It wasn’t much of a surprise, and would have happened far sooner if Oscar had been more personable, more skilled. “He leave anything behind?”

  “No,” Martin said. “He even stripped the Purgatory Hall of Fame merc posters his predecessor pasted everywhere.”

  “Damn,” she said. “I was hoping he’d leave his little crow hologram for you, at least.” She shifted her weight to the other foot, careful not to let her towel slip.

  “Same,” Spencer said. He had a thing for birds, and had tried to steal his own emitter several times, to no avail.

  “Think I can take the room?” Martin asked. He’d made no secret of how uncomfortable sharing with Spencer had been due to his size, and it had become a running joke among the new generation of orphans.

  “Who’s gonna stop you?” she asked. The director did nothing with room assignments. Mal let the question hang in the air until recognition dawned on his face, and then she walked away. They continued to chatter excitedly in her wake.

  In the room, Nadia was tilted, half-naked, one arm draped over her face. The sheets were pushed to the foot of the bed, and one leg dangled over the edge. Malory walked over, dropped her towel, and ran fingers along an exposed flank in light circles until she felt a tremble. She didn’t stop—she traced invisible letters on goose-pimpled skin until Nadia shrieked.

  “Okay, I’m awake!” Nadia reached out and grabbed Mal’s wrist to stop the tickling, and yanked her onto the bed. Damp hair slapped against skin. “Gross, you’re still soaked.”

  “Too late,” Malory said. She wrapped her arms around the smaller girl and kissed her deep until neither could breathe.

  “You’re so clingy in the mornings,” Nadia said. Her face was bright red, still unused to such straightforward affection.

  “You know you love it,” Malory said. She angled downward, lips on skin, slow caresses, and blew a raspberry next to Nadia’s belly button. The sound bounced around the small room.

  “Ah,” she exclaimed. “You’re the worst!”

  “Maybe,” Mal said. They laughed together, and then faded to silence and shared warmth.

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  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Nadia asked.

  “Yeah,” Malory said. She stood, walked over to their shared closet and started to dress. It was fall, so she chose her favorite transparent jacket, an obscure band t-shirt of a cat devouring the fragments of the moon, black shorts, and leggings. “Don’t be too jealous, but I’ve got a date.”

  “Your sister doesn’t count, idiot,” Nadia said. She sat up and watched Mal, still blushing.

  “Harsh,” she said. The sleeves of her jacket slid on, and she loved the way the see-through material reflected the neon at night. Perks to aggressive advertising, a fashion statement crafted from endless consumption. “How’s your new project coming along?”

  “The servos are a bitch, but I should have it walking soon,” she said. It had kept her up through most nights, kept them sleeping apart.

  “Looking forward to seeing it in action,” Mal said. She finished pulling on the leggings, twisted her damp hair into twin tails, and walked back to the bed for another kiss. “I’ll be back tonight.”

  “Find me working in the closet,” Nadia said. There was a hint of mischief in her sunken eyes, the promise of bodies pressed. “I’ll show you something fun.”

  Mal headed upstairs to find her sister, to their old shared room, and found Maya waiting in the hall in front of the door. A pang of guilt curled around her heart—she still felt terrible about moving in with Nadia, about leaving her sister on her own. That guilt was the driving factor in the plans for the day.

  “You’re late,” she said. The mole under her left eye twitched. Agitation. She’d been waiting a while and given up on excitement.

  “Sorry,” Mal said. She dug at one of the cuticles on her left hand until it felt like tearing. Her jacket crinkled with the movement. “Let’s go.” She turned to leave without making sure Maya followed.

  “You haven’t even told me where we’re going,” she said. Her voice was flat, bored.

  “It’s a surprise, of course,” Malory said. She headed down the stairs.

  “Whatever.” Her sister followed in silence.

  Outside, the immortal wall still loomed—never ending, never yielding safety that embraced New Detroit against the perils of the firmament, kept them caged in an open-air prison. There hadn’t been another skyfall since the day they all climbed the abandoned satellite uplink tower, but it was primed and ready in perpetuity. The two sisters walked down the street, crowded with the morning commute. None of the countless billboards garnered their attention, and no glass storefront was their destination. They paused at a massive hologram of an angel tree outside the nearest monorail station and admired the twisting, reaching branches, the detailed moss on bark, the flutter of so many leaves. Malory wished it was real so she could run her hands along the surface, feel the weight of age and nature and the foreign concept of longevity.

  “Do you think mom would have liked this?” she asked. The memories remained sealed, quarantined to spare the core of pain, but she couldn’t help but think of her any time she saw something beautiful, something fleeting.

  “I think so,” Maya said. She hesitated, then pushed further. “Mom would have encouraged us to climb the branches if it was the real thing, and taken pictures of us dangling near the top.”

  “Come on,” Malory said. She tried not to think about it further and headed toward the monorail entrance. “I don’t want you to miss the show.”

  “What does that even mean,” Maya protested, but followed anyway.

  The inside was pristine, white, and encased with glass and tasteful advertisements. They waited in the ticket line behind suits, well-dressed travelers, and factory workers for minutes until it was their turn. The machine was vibrant blue and awash with digital displays for stops, times, and prices per head. Mal pulled a makeshift rectangle from the pocket of her jacket that reflected the lights and signs of the station and pressed it to the analogue keypad until she heard the chime of successful payment for two to the industrial sector D that was embraced by another section of the wall—the object was her magnum opus, the results of all her programming efforts since their heist: it was a self-made hack for corporate dispensers that were tacked on faucets, vending machines, and kiosks to nickel and dime people to death. Two paper tickets slipped out and she grabbed them before Maya could ask any incriminating questions. They moved through the crowd, careful not to bump into anyone, and made their way upstairs to a bright yellow car that would take them to their goal. It was covered in graffiti that said ‘They Lied’ over a large Prophet’s Eye she recognized from the guard’s tattoo yet to be covered by the automated system.

  They scanned their tickets and went inside. It smelled of recycled air and fellow passengers. They took two seats next to the handrail and waited for departure. The car filled, more and more, until it reached capacity, and filled more still until people were standing shoulder to shoulder. Malory thought they resembled cattle on the way to slaughter, but didn’t say so. Her foot was stomped on, scuffing the leather of her boots, and she resisted the visceral urge to kick the offender in the shin. Instead, she snuggled closer to her sister and watched the people, their eyes glazed over in glittering blue displays of the network, of message apps, of memory recalls. It would have been too easy to pick their pockets, harvesting credits and valuables to sell later, but that wasn’t why they were there. She ran her fingers across her sister’s arm and relished the feeling as the car started moving—they’d been apart too long, and she missed the way they used to wake tangled in each other, how they’d argue over meaningless things, all the history they shared. When they got off the monorail, they were on a dirty street filled with the smog of progress, factory workers heading this way and that to long shifts of suffering and sweat.

  “Looks promising,” Maya offered. She wrinkled her nose and tried not to sneeze.

  “Trust me,” Malory said. She grabbed her sister’s hand and led the way.