Page 2 of A Symphony of Starlight
S hit. Shit. Shit. I scramble backward on my hands and knees.
“Haul ass, Tor! We’ve been spotted!”
“What? How?”
“Just move!” I tear down the shaft like a bullet down the barrel of a gun. The thin metal of the ventilation duct puckers outward with a metallic bang each time I thrust a knee down.
I’m making decent progress until my backside collides with Tori’s. Our legs get mixed up and the laces of my combat boots tangle with her stiletto heels. The struggle eats a few precious seconds, then Tori rips her foot free and books it down the tunnel.
“There’s another grate!” she calls, voice pitching high with panic.
“Here. Quick!” I reach behind me and fumble for Tori’s hand, passing her the burn-blade. The rectangular tunnel lights up as Tori extends the blade and uses it to slice through the metal. Our crouched bodies cast weird, long shadows. I hear a muted thud as Tori pushes the grate outward, like it landed on something soft .
“We’re through!” Tori shouts. There’s another thud as she, too, lands on something pliable. “Get ready to do some dumpster diving, Gee.”
I’m not sure what she means until she’s dragging me out by my waist. My feet meet something squashy and uneven, and we fall backward into a literal dumpster. It’s full of lumpy plastic bags and other refuse I do not care to identify, and it smells worse than the roomful of toilets we just evacuated.
I struggle to my feet. Tori has a harder time, her spiky heels stabbing into the soft garbage and catching on every step.
We’re in a narrow, shadowed alley between a couple of warehouses. Thankfully deserted. The alley opens into a street full of ravers stumbling to their next destinations and loitering in clusters where they laugh, argue, and pass cigarettes.
Back when the Underground was a mining hub, they used to pack and ship bales of raw Delirium here in the Warehouse District. Now the buildings have been taken over by a seedy mixture of nightclubs, gang operations, and squalid housing for squatters.
We slog to the edge of the dumpster and scale its scuzzy side without grace. A splash echoes as I step down. Wetness seeps through my boots. Tori splashes next to me and finds my hand in the dark. She laces her warm fingers in mine, not seeming to mind that something sticky and likely disgusting has coated my palm. We trip down the alley hand in hand and blend into the crowd on the street.
“What happened? Who spotted you?” Tori asks as we move through the bustling crowd as fast as we can without looking like we’re running from something.
“I met a guy. Thought I ditched him, but I guess he wasn’t taking no for an answer.”
“Shit, Gemma. You know how much trouble you’d avoid if you could just keep your legs shut for one goddamn night?”
Despite her talent for being a siren when she needs to, Tori’s basically celibate. And she’s right. She gets into less trouble than I do. I would say Tori doesn’t get it, but she does. She totally does. She’s the one person I know who really gets me. We both have trauma in our pasts, and we both found ways of dealing. She just turned to drugs sooner than I did. I tried sex first and a few other poisons before I found Delirium.
“I did keep my legs shut. You would’ve been proud of my restraint if you’d seen him. The man was gorgeous.” Before he walked in on me ditching a crime scene, anyway. Now the sight of his face would send me running. “Best-case scenario, there’s now a witness who can ID me on sight. Worst-case? He alerts someone, and we’re chased, caught, and either killed or given over to my dad.” I release a frustrated puff of air through pursed lips. “I don’t know which is worse. ”
Tori risks a glance behind us. “If we’re being followed, they’re not making themselves obvious.”
I don’t want to seem suspicious, but I peek over my shoulder, too. Lots of people are moving in the same direction we are. Mostly young and dressed for clubbing. An androgenous human couple with shaved heads ambles with their arms around each other’s waists a few metres behind us. Over their heads I see a tall, hairy group of Sevvies, their fur dyed in wild colours. They chortle and banter in their native tongue as they stumble along. One roars with what I think is laughter and reaches out with a huge, pawlike fist to punch his stripe-furred companion affably on the shoulder.
No one’s looking our way. No one seems like they’re in a hurry to catch up with us.
Maybe we got lucky. Maybe the dark-haired guy realized he wasn’t getting laid and went back to see the rest of RetroX’s show without bothering to alert anyone to the body bleeding out on the bathroom floor. It’s not like there are police to call, here in the Underground. He could tell a bouncer, but they probably wouldn’t come looking for me. They’d be more likely to toss the body in that alley and wipe up the blood before it upsets too many patrons.
The guy would have to be unusually motivated to bother figuring out Zander’s identity. Maybe then he could contact the higher-ups in the trafficking ring and score a reward for the description of Zander’s killer. But it’s unlikely anyone would go to all that trouble. And if he did, it would take time.
I let shoulders I didn’t realize were tense go slack. We’re in no immediate danger. And with a little time, I can change up my looks.
My most recognizable feature is my hair. A navy-blue streak frames the right side of my face, followed by a streak of metallic silver; the rest is my natural black, board-straight, and cut in an A-line bob. That’s easy to change. I can shave it off tonight when we reach our flat.
My eyes are a more challenging problem. Where I come from, hand-selected designer features are the norm. My old school was full of humans with violet eyes, natural blondes with ebony skin and the like. But down here in the Underground, recessive traits like my blue eyes are rare.
Add in the Delirium stains, and they stand out.
I frown as I shoot another glance over my shoulder. Here in the Underground, you can’t just download schematics for any item you need and print it at a whim like you can back home. I’ll have to hop transit to City Centre tomorrow. Swipe some coloured contacts from a prefab vendor.
Still, by tomorrow night, I’ll be unrecognizable.
Tori and I wind our way through the teeming streets of the Warehouse District before turning onto a less-crowded side street that leads to our neighbourhood. We’ve got a dump of a flat in one of the buildings that once housed miners with families back when this was an underground mining town. No streetlights illuminate our way. Except for a few street-level businesses with their own generators, our neighbourhood is without electricity.
We pass through a square of light shining onto the street from a twenty-four-hour cigarette depot. It’s so quiet I notice the rhythmic click of Tori’s heels and the tired clomp of my boots, and… is that the soft fall of another set of footsteps behind us?
Hairs rise on the back of my neck.
When we’re safely in the shadows, I glance over my shoulder. I catch the back of someone ducking into the depot to buy smokes. But no one’s following us.
I’m just nervous. I was like this after our other hits, too—paranoid and suspicious for days after each job. I breathe deeply and force myself to relax.
We turn the corner and the dark face of our building comes into view, promising safety at the end of the street.
I call it a building, but it’s not constructed with steel beams and concrete like the rest of the crumbling structures in the neighbourhood. Ours is one of the original residences carved straight into the rock wall of the Underground—a strange mingling of traditional Varunese building methods and superior human technologies from the short-lived time of cooperation between our two species. Before we decimated their population and relegated the rest to the mines and ghettos. Above ground, these Cooperation-era constructions have been torn down, erasing memories of the past.
The hulking edifice of natural rock looms ahead, towering out of sight in the blackness. A dim lantern flickers in a window a few stories up, and the bright light of Mr. Lee’s shop shines from a bigger window on ground level.
When we make it to the building, I hold the stairwell door open for Tori, reaching for the vial of Delirium with my other hand.
“You go on up.” I wiggle the glowing silver tube between my thumb and forefinger with a grin, hoping a brave face will chase away my jitters. “I’ll grab some groceries.”
Tori glances left and right, but the street’s deserted. She sighs. “All right. But be quick.”
-X-
The door slams shut behind Tori. I hesitate, then clomp a few metres farther along the outer wall of the building to the ground-level convenience store. An electronic bell dings as I enter. A generator hums low in the background.
“Hi, Mr. Lee!” I call to the man dozing behind the counter. He drags in a rumbly snore then starts awake, blinking as he runs a hand through the few strands of hair remaining atop his head.
“Gemma! Up late again, eh? ”
“I had a gig.” I waggle the vial of Delirium under his nose. Its glow is barely noticeable in the fluorescent lighting of the shop. “Pay was good.”
His smile deepens the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Glad to hear it. You’re skin and bones, girl. Buy something to eat!”
Mr. Lee is always encouraging. Especially when it comes to buying stuff at his store.
“I am hungry.” I turn and walk down the centre aisle of the little market. Energy bars, canned foods, and dry-packaged meal replacements line the shelves—non-perishable, compact items that can be shipped efficiently.
I wrinkle my nose at a can of Fish-Style Protein Purée.
Food is what I miss most about my old life. Back home, to eat was to appreciate an artform. It was about savouring colour, texture, presentation, and the complement and contrast of flavours. Even the school cafeteria food was fresh and nutritious. But in the Underground, food is “rations”—nothing more than a necessity for survival.
I can live without the fancy stuff. But I’d cut off my left arm for the chance to bite into a fresh, crisp cana-apple.
I grab a couple of scrubplum-flavoured energy bars, the closest I’m likely to get to real fruit. Faded purple wrappers crinkle unappetizingly in my hand. Sighing, I snag two packs of Eel Flakes for my neighbour, Sana, then return to the register and drop the items on the battered countertop.
Mr. Lee raises a brow. “Another load of Eel Flakes, eh?”
I shrug. “So what?”
“I’m surprised you’re a fan of fish-flavoured breakfast cereal. Especially this stuff.” He gestures vaguely at his gut. “Most humans don’t react so well.”
“What can I say? I have a strong stomach,” I bluff. I don’t need him knowing I’ve been slipping extra rations to Sana’s kids. She’s embarrassed enough as it is. If Mr. Lee mentioned it to her, Sana’s pride might get in the way of accepting any more help.
Mr. Lee raises a skeptical brow.
“I’ll eat a pack right now if you don’t believe me.” I lift one of the plastic pouches and make like I’m going to tear open the seal.
“I think both Sana and your gut would regret that.” Mr. Lee plucks the package out of my hand and sets it back on the counter. “But don’t worry. I won’t let your secret slip.”
I keep silent and hand him my vial. Maybe it’s not only Sana’s pride I’m worried about. One thing I’ve learned the hard way is, the more you let on that you care, the more likely you are to get hurt. And the same goes for those you care about, too.
Mr. Lee pulls a handheld scanning gun from under the counter and points it at the little glass tube. “Pure Da 2 ,” he says appreciatively, setting down the scanning device and reaching under the counter again. He places an empty vial rack, a small scale, and a pea-sized glass jar on the peeling resin surface.
“Marlin never stiffs me. I draw too big a crowd these days.” I jump on the chance to change the subject. Plus, I can’t help bragging a little. Only six months in the Underground, and I’ve already made a name for myself. “He’d never risk me going over to another organizer.”
Mr. Lee nods. “I hear you’re talented, Gemma.” He lifts the pair of glasses hanging from a string around his neck to the bridge of his nose. His magnified eyes meet mine through thick lenses. “A girl like you could set her sights far higher than fleeting highs and a moment in the spotlight.”
I try not to squirm under his penetrating gaze. There’s no point trying to deny I’ve had a problem with addiction. The permanent silver flecks in my irises are a dead giveaway. I shrug. “Yeah, well, maybe in a perfect world. But right now, I’m stuck in this one.”
“Maybe,” he says, still holding my gaze. “But a girl like you could change this world.”
I keep my mouth shut. I don’t know how the old man can believe the crap he’s spouting when he’s spent his whole miserable life in this hellhole of a town and never seen a single thing change for the better. The world doesn’t change. The best any of us can do is accept it and try to make the best life we can for ourselves.
The old grocer doesn’t push the topic. He takes my vial of Delirium and sets it carefully into his battered vial rack before unscrewing the tiny black lid, his gnarled fingers moving with the utmost care. He lifts a delicate syringe and sinks the tip into the silver liquid. He pulls the plunger slowly, allowing the needle to draw just enough of the drug to pay for the items I’ve laid on the counter.
Anywhere else, a merchant would have scanned the banking chip implanted in my thumb and my groceries would be paid for. The Underground is the only place on the planet that’s off-grid, isolated from the wireless web of moving data that envelops the rest of Varus. The magnetism in the rock surrounding the city cuts us off from the world’s financial system, from mod updates, and most importantly to me and Tori, from the implanted tracking devices our families might use to find us and drag us home.
As Mr. Lee zeros his scale and ejects the contents of the syringe into the miniature glass jar, my gaze drifts to the wall behind the grocer’s head. Something gold catches my eye.
I do a double take.
“Holy shit! Are those cana-apples?”
Mr. Lee starts, almost spilling the precious contents of his tiny jar. He rights it, then grins and looks over his shoulder at the three yellow spheres displayed like trophies on the shelf behind him. Real fruit. Not exactly fresh—the skin looks a little shrivelled, and I note a few bruises. But real fruit. The first I’ve seen in months. Even in less than pristine condition, the sight makes my mouth water.
“First shipment east of the outpost this year, and I managed to get my hands on a whole crate of them.” Mr. Lee turns back to me, looking smug. “All but these three sold in one afternoon. You want to buy one?”
I eye the handwritten price tag taped to the lip of the shelf under the centre apple. One piece of fruit is about the cost of two weeks’ worth of groceries for me and Tor. And we’re saving for transport off-planet. But… I can’t resist.
“Give me the biggest one.”
I’m grinning at the thought of biting into that apple. My grin doesn’t fade as Mr. Lee draws ten times the amount of Delirium I had intended to spend into the syringe and transfers it to the jar on the scale.
-X-
With the vial tucked safely in my bra and a smile still curving my lips, I climb the rusted metal stairs to our level. A bag of groceries swings at my side. I reach the dank landing outside the door to our flat and fumble for the key we keep hidden atop the doorframe.
Before I’ve found it, a scuffling sounds behind me.
I stiffen and spin, hand going to my chest. But the burn-blade isn’t in my bra band. Tori has it.
A hinge squeaks and yellow lantern light spreads across my vision.
“Gee-Gee!” a child’s voice squeals.
I let out a relieved breath and let my gaze drop to toddler-height. Bo, Sana’s three-year-old, stands in the doorway across from ours, wearing nothing but sagging training pants. The kid’s blue-skinned face is smeared with glistening boogers and lit up with a massive, buck-toothed smile. He toddles toward me with arms outstretched. The muffled wailing of his baby brother emanates from inside the flat, along with Sana’s soothing voice trying to calm the infant with a Varunese lullaby.
I crouch on one knee and Bo runs to me, wrapping soft but bony arms tightly around my neck. I hug him back. Poor little guy isn’t nearly as chubby as a baby his age should be. Not that I know much about kids. I’m judging based on the advertisements I’ve seen of round-cheeked toddlers showering their mothers with kisses for buying the ideal brand of breakfast cereal.
Speaking of which, I pull a packet of Eel Flakes from my bag. “Got you a treat,” I say, switching to Varunese as I hand it off to Bo. “One for you, one for Liss. ”
In comparison to my memories of the pantries I used to raid as child—overflowing with brightly-coloured imported fruits and savoury green herbs cut straight from the kitchen gardens—this plastic-packaged, dehydrated food seems like a paltry gift. But Bo takes my offering in his grubby hands like it’s something special. “Yummy!”
Bo’s big sister, Lissa, steps into the doorway behind him. “Hi, Gemma.” She’s nearly six, and far too mature to call me Gee-Gee.
“Hey, Liss.” I hand the other packet of cereal off and she takes it with a mix of eagerness and the reserved pride she gets from her mother. “What’s with the late night?” I nod at her brother. “Shouldn’t Bo be in bed?” I don’t mention that it’s obviously way past Lissa’s bedtime, too.
“Bo said he heard a noise, but we all know it was just another one of his nightmares,” she explains with an air of superiority. I tense at the mention of a noise, but then force my body to relax again. I need to get over it. There’s no way the guy from the rave could know where we live. And Lissa’s right. Bo’s been having nightmares since his dad died. “His blubbering woke the baby. And the baby’s crying woke Mama.”
Sana fills the doorway behind her daughter, baby now pacified at her breast. Even with her blue skin, dark circles shadow Sana’s eyes. I don’t know how she manages with three kids in a one-room apartment .
“Sorry Bo intercepted you, Gemma. I’m sure you want to get to bed.” Sana’s always come across as a little harried, but since a mining accident killed her husband two months ago, she’s become sunken-cheeked and pale. I suspect she’s going without rations to put what little she has into the kids’ bellies. And I know what kind of work she’s been doing to get that little bit of food. Tori and I have watched her kids in our flat while Sana’s entertained “guests.”
It makes Tori uncomfortable, but I don’t fault Sana for what she’s got to do to put food on the table. Few jobs are available to Varuns outside of the mines, and the mining jobs are dangerous and cause long-term illness in those who avoid accidents long enough for the toxins to get to them. It’s a dark side of the industry I never knew about until I came to the Underground.
I push down guilt as I wave away Sana’s apology. “It’s been a long night, but a hug from these guys is just what I needed.”
“Guess what, Gee-Gee?” Bo pipes up. “It’s Lissa’s birfday!”
I gasp and look Lissa over. “I knew something was different! You look like a six-year-old. Might even be able to pass for seven.”
Lissa rolls her eyes, knowing that one day can’t really change her looks so drastically. But she’s also trying to hide a smile.
I know better than to ask her about cake or presents, so the compliment about looking grown up is the best I can come up with.
Or maybe it isn’t… I shove my hand into my bag to feel around for the cana-apple. “I have a present for you.” I pull out the round yellow fruit and hold it in front of the kids’ faces, grinning.
Sana gasps. Lissa’s and Bo’s eyes go round.
“What’s that?” Lissa whispers in an awed tone.
“It’s—”
“Gemma, we couldn’t possibly accept that,” Sana cuts in.
I search her tired face. “I insist. Birthdays are special.”
Sana hesitates, but then glances at the kids. She gives me a nod.
Bo reaches out to stroke the fruit’s waxy, slightly wrinkled surface. “Is it birfday cake? That’s what humans do, right?”
“Yeah. And they light it on fire,” says Lissa.
Bo’s eyes grow even rounder, obviously shocked at the idea of wasting cake, even if he’s never tasted it.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “No one’s lighting any fires. And it’s not cake, it’s something even better.” I hand the apple to Lissa. She stretches webbed fingers wide around the large yellow fruit. “Share with your brother.”
Lissa looks at me with the solemnity of someone who’s just been bestowed with a high honour. “I will. ”
Sana herds her kids back into their flat as I rise to my feet. She forces a smile. “Thank you, Gemma.”
But the look in her eyes as she closes the door isn’t grateful. It’s grim.
I give the landing a frustrated kick, leaving a black scuff mark in the grit and rust. It’s not fair that Sana has no options. Not fair that she’s trapped in a life where she can’t be the one to shower her own kid with birthday treats.
A girl like you could change this world. Mr. Lee’s words come back to me like a mocking echo, hollow.
If only he knew how wrong he was.
I can’t change this world. It’s people like me who made it.
And now I’m just as stuck in it as Sana.
-X-
I expected to find Tori up with the lights on, scrounging around our nearly bare cupboards in her faded pyjamas. Instead, I open the door to darkness.
“Tor?” I whisper.
Paranoia tightens my stomach as I wait a beat.
No answer.
She probably just passed out early .
But Bo did say he heard a noise. I drop my grocery bag and grip the key in my hand like a pitiful excuse for a knife, cursing myself for not bringing a secondary weapon.
“Tor?”
I think I hear an indrawn breath.
I fumble to flick on the battery-powered lantern sitting on a table just inside the door. Its lacklustre glow pools in a pallid half-circle that doesn’t reach the edges of our tiny, one-room apartment.
My eyes dart toward the ragged foldout bed Tori and I share, hoping for the familiar sight of Tori burritoed in a bundle of blankets.
Instead, I stifle a scream.
A tall, lithe-looking man stands next to the bed with an arm tight around Tori’s trembling shoulders, his black-gloved fingers pressing into her bare skin. Thick, black tape binds her wrists. Tori’s eyes are wide with terror, and one of our stained old kitchen rags is wadded in her mouth, forcing her lips into the shape of a scream.
The guy holds a blaster to her temple.
I stagger back against the door, heart suddenly racing. He’s missing the black uniform and red insignia of my family crest, but I recognize his sandy hair and scarred face.
“Miss Gemma,” the guy says, tone dangerously polite as his eyes lock on mine. “Your father expects you to come quietly. We wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen to your friend, would we?”