Blight Page 3

  I make for the wall of corn. Kingfisher’s voice comes back into range behind me, angry and unintelligible, followed by the murmur of Ellison trying to keep him calm. The cornstalks crackle as I push them aside. The leaves are tough as ribbed canvas beneath my hands. I unsling my rifle and use its muzzle to push my way through. The quiet grows thicker the deeper I go. No wind, no insects, only sun and corn.

  “Ow.” A muffled yelp. I freeze.

  “Watch it,” a kid whispers.

  “No, you watch it,” another kid rasps back.

  “Boys.” A woman. “Hush.”

  I advance slowly, careful not to step on the dry husks that have fallen to the dirt and give myself away. Maybe I’m going crazy—the sharecroppers all tell stories about sound traveling funny in the corn—but I swear the voices are coming from ahead of me and under my feet.

  “He started it,” one of the boys whines.

  “I don’t care who started it.” The woman again. “We ain’t got time for this. You want your daddy to get taken away by those security cogs?”

  I push forward through another row, and the corn drops away. A small, empty square of land, about the size of the monitoring room in the Eye, lies in the center of the corn. Sets of tall wooden tripods fashioned out of stakes and twine dot the space, all heavy with full-grown runner beans. I count quickly. Fourteen, maybe fifteen plants in total, all definitely contraband. I whistle low to myself. Ellison should see this.

  “Listen,” one of the boys says, closer than ever. “Did you hear that?”

  I drop into a crouch and scan the ground. There’s more here than a contraband bean plot. Then I spot it. A clear space in the corner, covered only by dirt and husks. I approach softly, heel-toe, heel-toe. There, a mud-caked metal handle. I kneel and gently scrape away the soil around it. Not so much as a loud breath. A trapdoor comes into view, cut from a piece of roofing tin.

  I smile. Got you. I grab the handle and heave up. The trapdoor flies open, scattering dust and debris through the air. I flip my rifle’s selector from safety to single shot and aim down into the gap that’s suddenly appeared in the earth. A woman screams, and someone else shrieks behind her.

  “Everybody drop what you’re doing.” I squint into the darkness. “Don’t move.”

  I descend the stairs slowly, rifle at the ready, giving my eyes time to adjust to the shadows. A middle-aged woman with tanned skin and long salt-and-pepper hair stands beside a weathered wooden sideboard, a jar of golden corn seeds uncapped in her hand. Two small boys peek out from behind her, and a girl of maybe twelve sits on a low stool on the other side of the narrow room, cutting out squares of plastic with a paring knife. Makeshift plywood and cinder-block shelves line the earthen walls behind them, each cluttered with grimy jars holding seeds. A clutch of radio equipment—transmitter, headphones, receiver—has been shoved in beside them.

  My eyes widen. There’s too much here for simple contraband, too much for a farmer who might want to organize a little behind-the-barn trade in exchange for extra fructose rations or a favor down the line. And the radio equipment . . . Marco’s right. The Kingfishers must be distributors. The woman—Kingfisher’s wife?—places the seed jar carefully on the sideboard.

  I set my jaw. I’ve got to take charge while they’re still stunned enough not to run. “Okay, everybody up and out.” I gesture at the daylight with my rifle.

  The woman lets her fingers linger on the jar’s lid, as if she’s caressing something precious. “Come on, little ones.” She speaks quietly, even though there’s no reason to hide now. “Do what the lady says.”

  The girl and boys file up the steps. Pity strikes me. Unless Harry Kingfisher does some fast talking, these kids aren’t going to be seeing their parents again. They’re probably going to be stuck in a dormitory on sharecropping detail, at least until they’re old enough to strike their own deal with the company. And with a history of illegal seed hoarding and distribution on their files, it’ll be hard for them to ever score a good assignment like security forces or research and development.

  The woman moves to follow her children. My pity turns to anger.

  “You.” I turn my rifle on her. What kind of mother makes her kids into criminals, saddles them with that label for the rest of their lives? “Hand me that container.”

  The woman places a trembling hand over the jar of corn seeds. “What, this?”

  “Yes.” I let acid drip into my words. “That. Hand it over, now.”

  Her gaze flicks to the rifle, and then back to me. She holds it out.

  I snatch it from her. “Now up the stairs. We’re going to take a little walk and see what your husband has to say about this operation you’ve got going here.”

  “He doesn’t know anything.” Her voice warbles. “This was all my idea. He doesn’t know a thing.”

  “Uh-huh.” I follow her up the steps, my rifle trained on her back the whole way.

  The girl and one of the boys are waiting next to the trapdoor. The youngest kid is gone.

  “Dammit.” I scan the corn, careful to keep my rifle on Mrs. Kingfisher. “Where’d he go?”

  The girl and her brother stare at me.

  I turn to them. “Which way did he go?”

  The boy whimpers and moves closer to his sister. She clutches him, eyes on my rifle.

  Good, let them be afraid. Not that I would shoot a bunch of kids—that would be unprofessional—but they don’t need to know that.

  “I’m going to ask one more time.” I narrow my eyes at the girl. “Where did he go?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” She doesn’t blink. “He got scared and ran. I . . . I think he was headed for the house.”

  I heave a sigh. What else am I going to do? The kid won’t get far once we’ve called in our findings, anyway. He’ll probably turn himself in once he figures out his family is gone.

  “C’mon,” I grunt, and march them back in the direction of the house.

  “Please.” Mrs. Kingfisher turns to me. Tears streak her face. “Just let our kids go. They ain’t to blame for this.”

  “You should have thought of that before.” I poke her in the chest with my rifle’s muzzle. “Move.”

  By the time we break through the corn, the woman is stumbling through hiccupping sobs, and the boy has caught her hysteria. Only the older girl stays silent, eyes straight ahead, as we step into the homestead’s side yard. Mr. Kingfisher and my teammates are more or less arrayed as before, Ellison at Kingfisher’s side, Marco atop the vehicle, Will and Danica spread out on guard.

  “Hey, guys.” I hold the jar of corn seeds aloft with my free hand and shake it. “Look what I found.”

  Kingfisher catches sight of us. I see him counting and coming up one shy. “What—” His voice rises. “Marie? Where’s Micah?”

  “Harry!” Mrs. Kingfisher goes hoarse. “The kids, Harry—”

  Kingfisher locks eyes with me. “What did you do to them? What did you do with Micah?” He steps onto the grass.

  “Mr. Kingfisher.” Ellison plants a warning hand on his chest.

  “No.” Kingfisher shoves Ellison aside and strides full bore at me. His eyes have gone black and dilated. “Where’s my son? What the hell did you do with him?” He’s charging now, all two hundred pounds of him barreling down on me with a fury that makes me take a step back.

  “Harry, no!” Mrs. Kingfisher screams. “Stop!”

  A surge of adrenaline hits me. My training clicks in. I drop to one knee, brace my rifle, and aim for Kingfisher’s shin. A wounding shot. I don’t want these kids to see me kill their old man, even if he is a criminal. “Mr. Kingfisher, stop.”

  He keeps coming. The world slows and sharpens. I tighten my finger on the trigger. Last warning. “Mr. Kingfisher—”

  A sickening thud smacks the air, the sound of meat on meat. It happens too fast for me to see, but somehow Kingfisher is down in a flail of arms and legs, wrestling with someone in the dirt. I blink and lower my rifle. Will’s head su
rfaces in the fray.

  “Stay down, you sonovabi—”

  Kingfisher gets in a solid hit across Will’s jaw. I hear the bones crunch from where I’m standing. Danica flies in from the right, brandishing her rifle like a bat. She swings the butt in a downward arc and cracks Kingfisher across the face. He screams and then there’s blood, and Danica and Will won’t stop hitting him and, no, his kids shouldn’t be seeing this, no matter what their father did, and all of a sudden I’m remembering what I don’t want to remember—my own father on his back in the leaves, a single snowflake falling to rest on his still, unseeing eye—

  A gunshot rings out. “That’s enough.” Ellison steps forward.

  For a moment, all I can hear is my own quick breath and a high ringing. Danica and Will let Kingfisher drop. His head thumps against the ground. An animal moan rises from him.

  “I think he’s sufficiently subdued.” Ellison’s face has gone a sick shade of gray, but he doesn’t drop the command in his voice. He looks at me. “What’s this about? Who’s Micah?”

  I lower my rifle and swallow. “The littlest kid, I’m guessing.” I climb to my feet. “The one we saw make a run for it earlier. I was subduing the mother, and he went rabbit. Slipped me.”

  Ellison grunts and nods. “He’ll turn up.” He tilts his chin at the jar of corn. “Is that all you found?”

  I shake my head. “There’s a whole underground room out in the field, about sixty paces in. I left the door open. Shouldn’t be hard to spot.”

  Ellison casts a disgusted look at Kingfisher and his wife. “Torres and Etowah, load ’em up in the truck. We’ll let the administrators figure out what to do with them. Betts, call in the eradication team and report the kid’s data band number to admin for an APB. Hwang, with me.”

  “Sir.” The rest of them salute, so I copy and follow up with my own belated “Sir.”

  Ellison and Danica disappear into the corn, while Will climbs into the truck’s cab to call in what we’ve found. Marco hops down and helps me lift Kingfisher so we can fasten his hands behind his back with a zip tie and haul him to the truck. His wife and kids follow sullenly.

  Harry Kingfisher slumps in the bed of the truck. His breathing sounds wet and strained. Mrs. Kingfisher sits with her head in her hands, trying to hide the fact that she’s still crying. The boy whimpers, but the girl is strangely silent.

  “Right,” Will says into the truck’s coms. “See you in a few.”

  I shake out my hands to cover their trembling and make a close circuit around the vehicle.

  You’ve still got to do your job, Tempest, I tell myself. You knew this might happen. What would Ellison do?

  Gather intelligence, I think. Take advantage of your opponent’s disorientation. Right. I take a deep breath. Only the girl looks up as I approach, but no matter. She’s the one I want to talk to anyway.

  I sit down next to her on the truck’s bumper. “What’s your name?”

  “Juna.” She looks at me warily.

  “It’s all right.” I try to smile kindly. “How old are you, Juna?”

  “Eleven and a half,” she whispers.

  “Almost old enough to make your own contract.” I flood my voice with cheer. “Have you thought about what you’d like to do when you’re older?”

  She shrugs. “I guess I’ll help my dad run the share.”

  Pity wells up in me again. No way are the Kingfishers keeping their share after what’s gone down today. Contraband, distribution, and resisting arrest? Maybe even proselytizing, depending on what they have to say for themselves.

  I clear the rifle’s breach and click the safety back on. “You know this isn’t how most people live, right?” I turn to look at her. “Selling contraband? There are other ways to live. Honest ways.”

  Juna narrows her eyes. “Like what?”

  “Well.” I clear my throat. “You could become a scientist, come up with new disease-resistant strains of plants. Or you could be an instructor or work in laundry services or transport or pest eradication.”

  Juna stares at the dirt.

  “Or you could be like me,” I say.

  Juna looks up sharply. “Like you?”

  I nod. “I’m not so different from you. I would have ended up a scavenger if it weren’t for AgraStar taking me in when I was your littlest brother’s age.” I smile. “You wouldn’t know that to look at me now, would you?”

  Juna shakes her head. “I guess not.”

  “Juna,” I say gently. “You know where your brother’s gone, don’t you?”

  Her eyes dart to mine.

  “It’s okay to tell me. I only want to keep him safe, is all.”

  She opens her mouth, but hesitates.

  “I could put in a good word for you,” I say. “If you help us, I can make sure you get the assignment you want when you make your contract.”

  “I . . .” She shoots a glance at her parents, caked in dust and bound with zip ties, then up at me.

  Right then, an engine backfires on the road behind us. A high-sided pickup rumbles into the yard. Two figures in white jumpsuits and filtration masks climb out of the truck and begin unloading tanks of chemicals.

  I look back to Juna, but her eyes have gone hard again.

  Ellison and Danica reappear at the edge of the field.

  “Oh, good.” Ellison waves to the eradication team. “It’s this way. Danica’ll show you.”

  The white jumpsuited team lugs their chemicals across the yard and follow Danica back into the corn.

  “Load up,” Ellison calls to us. “We’ve got to clear out of here so Eradication can do their work.”

  My head snaps up. “What about the kid?”

  “Admin says he’s not registering in this quadrant.” Will cranes his head around to look at me. “Wherever he is, he’s well clear.”

  “Oh.” Of course he is. Eradication would never go ahead with their work if the kid was anywhere close. Way to show you’re green, Torres.

  I help the Kingfisher kids into the front seat and make sure their parents are securely bound in the cargo area. I slam the tailgate closed and come face-to-face with Ellison.

  He leans a hand against the spare tire bolted to the truck. “You did good out there, Torres. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone perform that well on their first day of a new assignment. You’re a real professional.” There’s something in his eyes. Respect? Admiration? But no, it’s something more than that. He’s not looking at me like a student anymore. I’m his equal in the field.

  “Th—thanks.”

  Ellison touches my upper arm, and my breath catches in my throat. “Tempest. Can I call you that?”

  My mouth gapes open like a fish. I manage to nod.

  “Maybe you can ride with me again soon.” He squeezes lightly and grins. “We make a good team, huh?”

  My face goes hot. “Yeah.” I duck my head and look down at the truck’s tire treads. “We do.”

  Danica jogs back across the yard. “They’re ready. We can move out.”

  We pile into the jeep, Danica, Will, and Marco in the backseat, and Juna and her brother crammed between me and Ellison in the front. Ellison guns the engine, and we pull away from the Kingfisher homestead. As the house shrinks from view, a dull thud shakes the earth, followed by a louder, crackling boom. Everyone but Ellison looks back. A thick black cloud billows up from the Kingfishers’ field.

  “I’ll never be like you,” Juna whispers, so soft I almost can’t hear. “Not ever.”

  .3.

  SNAKEBERRY

  SOLANUM DULCAMARA

  Afternoon thunderclouds mass overhead as Ellison speeds toward the nearest security substation. A cool breeze moves through the fields, sweeping back the sluggish summer air. The sky is pink and electric. Ellison clicks on the headlights.

  “E.T.A., ten minutes,” he says into the radio. “Y’all got someone from admin ready to take the Kingfishers into custody?”

  “Roger that,” the radio crackles bac
k. “You better gas it if you want to beat that storm front, though. You know how the roads get.”

  Ellison frowns, concentrating on driving. In the backseat, Danica, Will, and Marco have begun retelling the story of the afternoon, complete with sound effects. I can already tell the version that makes it back to the bunker is going to be slightly more badass than the reality.

  “I . . .” I clear my throat and steal a glance at Ellison. “I liked how you handled everything. Back there, I mean.”

  Ellison flashes a grin at me. “You didn’t do so bad yourself.” He smiles and spares a look away from the road for me. “Do you mind me asking—what made you decide to join up with security forces?”

  “I . . .” I blush. “It’s kind of stupid.”

  Ellison rolls his eyes. “It can’t be that bad.”

  “Okay, so . . .” I take a deep breath. “There was this woman, Rosalie MacLeod, on security forces when I was a kid—”

  “Oh, Rosalie. I remember her.” Ellison waves his hand in apology. “Sorry, go on.”

  “There’s not much to it.” I look out at the corn rushing by, its greens deepening under the darkening clouds. “She was nice to me. I wanted to be like her.”

  Ellison nods. “I get that.” He glances over at me again. “It’s not stupid.”

  In the distance, thunder rumbles, and the whole world sighs, expecting rain.

  “She was the one who found me,” I blurt out. I breathe in sharply, as if I could suck the words back. I never talk about that, not with anyone.

  Ellison looks at me more intently now, so long I’m sure he’s going to run us off the road. Then he turns forward again. “I liked her, too. She was good at what she did.”

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  “What ever happened to her?”

  “She got hurt on a transport security mission.” I twist my fingers in my lap. “After that, she transferred to communications down at the R and D facility. I don’t see her anymore.”