Sissy gets in line, and I stand behind her. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but the people queuing up seem to stiffen slightly. In front of us, horses and carriages roll by, the clip-clop and occasional squeaky wheel breaking the monotone thumping of boots on concrete.
The bus arrives, an extra-long carriage used on special days when ridership is high. The six horses are already chuffing with exertion, their combined heat radiating out. We board. And as we do, the nearest horse suddenly swings its head toward me, nostrils flaring wide and wet. It smells us. Hepers.
Discreetly, I nudge Sissy from behind. A hurry up, get on already prod. She ascends the two steps, glides down the aisle slowly but deftly, avoiding body contact. No easy feat considering how crowded it is. She finds a seat in the second-to-last row. Opens the window quickly. Good. Wind gusts in. A few passengers, annoyed, turn to look at her. Sissy only stares out the window. Even after they look away, she keeps her head perfectly still, face turned looking outside. Perfect. She’s doing great.
I find an empty seat across the aisle from her. Place the backpack down on the aisle seat, carefully. I open the window wide, feel the glorious rush of air. So far, so good. Everything according to plan, not a hitch yet.
Behind my Visor, I glance sideways at Sissy. She’s rock still, holding strong. Her breathing controlled, her shoulders not too tense. Only her hands give away the stress she feels—her fingers are fidgeting in her lap. But nobody’s sitting next to her; nobody can see her hands.
The bus moves along, the sound of the horses’ hoofs on concrete synchronized almost perfectly with one another. The wood-shelled carriage creaks as we move forward.
Several stops along the way. More people pile in. Somebody approaches. Points to my backpack on the seat next to me. I ignore him, stare out the window. He doesn’t say anything, only stands in the aisle. He reaches up and grabs a strap dangling from above. Bodies fill the aisle now. Somebody sits next to Sissy. Then a wall of bodies in the aisle blocks my view of her.
People staring at me, annoyed at this young punk who’s too self-absorbed and selfish to move his bag so others can sit down. I keep my head facing outward, even as my eyes scan from side to side behind the Visor.
A sudden turn at an intersection. The bodies tilt and sway slightly and I catch a brief glimpse of Sissy. Her shoulders bunched and taut, her neck unnaturally canted. She’s tense. But she’s still got her wits about her. She’s facing outward, pushing her breath through the open window. Capable, this girl. Something like pride swells in me.
Minutes pass. More bodies pile in. Then we’ve made our last residential stop, and the bus-carriage is flying along the street. The road is filled with other horses and carriages, the sidewalks bursting with the pace of thousands walking to the Convention Center. No one speaking, everything quiet except for the sound of hoofs and the pounding of thousands of boots on concrete. The buildings grow taller, no longer the low domiciles of the residential zones. We’ve entered the business sector.
And minutes later, we arrive at the Convention Center. A water show is on full display in the large fountain out front. High arching, spiraling streams of water jet out of the pool, twenty, thirty meters into the air before splashing into the rippling, frothing surface. Music is piped in through outdoor speakers, synchronized with the water show. Sissy gets off the bus before me, walks with the flow of pedestrian traffic. Everyone’s pace faster now, the start of the event drawing closer, the excitement level building. She walks slowly, knowing it’ll be easy to get separated in such a crowd.
She stops in front of the fountain. I sidle up next to her. Our eyes stayed fixed on the water shooting up in wide symmetrical arcs above us. Phosphorescent liquids have been added to the water, and the soaring twirls of water glow lightly in the dark.
“Okay?” I whisper.
“Okay.”
“No. Really. Are you okay?”
She doesn’t respond immediately. “There’s so many of them. Too many.” Her voice catches, hitching. “How are we ever going to pull this off? What were we thinking?”
“Sh-h-h. Don’t stand so close to the fountain. They’re afraid of it—the water, the depth, the lights.”
“Why do they have it then?”
“The danger’s a huge part of the thrill for them.”
She takes a step backward. “I don’t think we can do this. There’re too many of them. They’re everywhere.”
“No, we’re doing fine. Just remember the game plan. Focus on that. And on nothing else, not the people around you. Okay?”
After a moment, she whispers, “Okay.”
“Stay close,” I say, and we rejoin the crowd streaming into the Convention Center.
Twenty-eight
TO ENTER THE main arena of the Convention Center, the crowd must first filter through a large tunnel that breaks into smaller and smaller tributaries leading to higher levels and sections. Here in the main tunnel, every sound is amplified and echoed and the thunder of footsteps makes it seem like there are many more than the thousands heading into the auditorium.
Despite our best-laid plan to remain apart, Sissy and I walk side by side. It’s simply too dark and too crowded to risk losing each other. We even take off our Visors, a dicey move but given the near-pitch-black environs, a necessary one. I comfort myself in the knowledge that this throng of thousands is facing the same direction, with no one glancing backward or sideways at us.
Sissy starts trembling next to me. It’s barely discernible, invisible to most. But I see the way her fingers are quaking. She’s trying to tamp down her fears and give off a calm demeanor, but she’s over-compensated. Her lips are torqued into an odd curve, and her arms swing with disjointed jerks. We can’t go on like this. Sooner or later, somebody’s going to notice.
On our right is a small food court, mostly empty. It’s surrounded by concession stalls selling light fare, slims of synthetic meat and artificially flavored sludge. I nudge Sissy toward a table in the far corner where we can keep our faces from view. There are a few other couples at other tables, conversing and sipping their drinks. That’s good. We fit in.
“I’m sorry,” she says as we sit down. “It just got to me. Too many of them, penning us in. The air went thin, I felt suffocated.”
“It’s okay. Let’s take a minute to regroup.”
She takes slow, deep breaths. Shakes her head in frustration, catches herself. “Thought I was stronger than this,” she says, a hoarse whisper issuing from her throat. “What’s wrong with me?”
“You’re not used to it. Listen, we can stay together. Maybe it was a foolish idea to separate.”
But she’s already shaking her head. “No. We stick to the original plan.”
“Sissy—”
She touches my hand. Withdraws it quickly, remembering. “No, Gene. We decided it was best. You in the upper levels. Me down on the floor. You take her out with the sniper, make a quick getaway. If you miss, or your sniper jams, or . . .”—she bites her lip for just a second—“I’ll take her out.”
“That’s not going to happen, Sissy.”
“We just have to—”
“I won’t let it happen. I won’t miss. I’m not going to make you take the shot on the floor because we know what that means. Down there, you have no escape.”
“I know. But we should plan for every exigency.” She brushed her hair to the side. “Regardless of how it goes down, we try to meet out front by the fountain. And worse comes to worst, we’ll meet back at the boulders in the desert.”
I want desperately to run my hand under her jawline where the hardness of bone and softness of flesh meet. But all I can do is stare at my stationary hands.
“We should check the TT,” she says after a while.
I take out the TextTrans. Nothing. I type out a quick message.
Epap, we’re at the CC. Where are you?
It’s risky to give away our position like this, and my finger hovers over the SEND button, hesitating.
But Sissy urges me to send it. “It’s the right move,” she says. “Maybe his TT’s broken, can receive but not send messages. If that’s the case, we need to let him know we’re here. Give him at least a chance of connecting with us.”
“You really think he might be here?”
She nods. “If he wasn’t able to kill her last night—and judging from the fact that the event is still on, he didn’t—he’d want to come here. For the very reason we’re here: she’s here.” Sissy nods. “Let’s send it. Play big, win big.” She taps on SEND.
Or lose big, I think, but don’t verbalize.
Behind us, the crowds grow larger by the minute. Their footsteps are thunderclaps bouncing off the walls and ceiling.
Sissy half-turns to look at them. Under the table, she clenches my hand tighter.
“This is not something we didn’t anticipate,” I say.
“I know. But this is so much worse than I thought it’d be.”
I lean closer to her. “We can still leave. Just forget about—”
“No. Let’s do this.”
“Sure?”
She nods, tensely.
Someone sits at the table next to us. The food court is getting crowded, filling with people who walked here on empty stomachs. “We should move on,” I say reluctantly. “Before we attract any attention.”
Her hand squeezes mine one more time before letting go. “But this is where we part ways, Gene.”
“Don’t put it like that.”
A flicker of a smile. “I’ll see you later then, okay?” she says.
“Okay.”
But neither of us moves. We don’t want to separate.
Using her body as cover, she takes out her handgun and pockets away a silencer. “We stick to the plan, Gene. Don’t deviate, okay?” She slides the gun into her the waist of her pants, pulls her shirt over the bulge. “See you in a bit.”