IT WAS IN A GYM that Ulysses, then a down-on-his luck boxer little older than I am now, decided to make something more of a life cut short. Back in his day, he was one of the rare Venters who made it up to the pro leagues. Fighting at the Metro Blockhouse, drilling his way into the minor league, all the corpo sponsors he could want lined up to ride his rise. Then, the accident. No one but us few knew the truth of it: hazing gone wrong, locker room brawl, overcity elitists who didn’t want a Venter taking up precious space in their league. Two of them were banned from the arena for life in the aftermath. But Ulysses, beaten to a pulp, was never quite the same. Old aches in a young body. Too painful to keep going.
He returned from where he came. Brief stint in the sun, a taste of the glory, followed by that old boot to the throat. Ended up on a bridge with a bottle. A story everyone in the Vents has lived at least once. But when he stared at the Abyss looming beneath us all, there was a man- a foreigner in a foreign land, he never said more- who was there to watch the birds. And that man reminded him of why he left the Vents in the first place.
“We live to fight,” Ulysses told me, when he took me to see that bridge. Eight years old, babysitting for Sarah, riding on his shoulders. “It’s the nature of our people, Emilia. Live to fight. Fight to live.”
“But there are no birds in the Vents,” I said, still thinking of the man.
He smiled at that. “That’s what I told him. Can you guess what he said back?”
I shake my head, that tiny little braid, wide green eyes. Waiting.
“He pointed up. All the way up the layers, through the crust, up to the Electric Town, to the very tip-top of the M. ‘Birds of prey’, he told me. ‘No feathers, but they soar anyways.’”
Those aether trails crisscrossing the underground sky; I’d seen them ten thousand times before. It seemed a little more special that day. And I started looking up more because of it.
Maybe that’s all it took to get Ulysses to leave the bridge a different man. If they spoke more, he decided to take those last words with him in secret, just like the name of the man.
What money he’d already won in the leagues before the accident, he used to buy a gym. This gym. He made it a house whose doors never closed. Built and rebuilt it, brick by brick, all to help others become those birds of prey. Training them and letting them soar where he no longer could. They flocked to him. Gave him a new family. New friends. Left, made their own nests, and sent new birds back to learn for themselves.
Ulysses didn’t become one of the Eight by force. People just knew him. Like Sarah, he cast a shadow larger than most, and his shadow looked like it knew what it was doing. It was making a better future for the ones who would come next. They disagreed on methods, but he and her both shared the same vision. And this gym was where it all began.
I’ve been here so many times before.
Cavernously empty, it’s a martial warehouse stripped of all its workout equipment and specialty training gear. Thousands of pounds of weights relocated to storage rooms where racks of JOY training rings hang. Dormant speakers clinging to the pillars. Old halogens cold and dark. Only the sandstone fighting squares couldn’t be moved. Stacks of sleeping pallets wait on them to be dispersed across the polished concrete floor. But the people who were stacking them are gone, as is the Biohancer who performed my hasty surgery under Ulysses’ patient eye. All that’s left are two people who remember what this place looked like in the good old days. One of them a lot younger, and a lot more sore, than the other.
“But it beats having ceramic tiles poking at my lungs,” I say, pulling out one of the stools at bar. Fully stocked even in the uneasy hour, it’s just a wooden slab with a tin roof and a lot of drinks behind it. Right next to the largest of the two bay doors, a short view of a towerside walk and a chasm of the Abyss beyond; the nearest block thirty meters distant. Cold, humid wind flows through the open doors into the depths of the gym, moaning where it passes through the rusty rafters. Credit chits rattle like wind chimes from the ceiling. Rite of passage, pinning your first winnings from a fight club up there. A neon sign of the gym’s name casts rainbow hues beneath the chits, spelling out The Haymaker.
I saddle up on the stool with proper gunslinging bravado. White bandages around the top half of my chest, wrapped down my arms to my knuckles. Hair down, the starburst’s ends limp and drooping over another bandage around my forehead. Leather pants, slim, a torn patch flapping at my waist like a banner mark. 6-Teba, cracked almost to the core, set atop the counter.
Through the open bay, my eyes trace the distant rooftops of the next block over. Wondering, but not expecting, to see the familiar glint of a watching rifle scope. But whatever wrath brought Krey to the summit, he’s kept with him ever since. Did he already have an idea of Yelena’s betrayal? Or was her laughter over Dax’s death enough to make him pull the trigger? Either way, he survived the Armiger, and he’s still out there. Likely putting together another hit on the syndicate even as they devour the Vents. Knowing him, he’s planning on jumping right down their draconic throat with a bomb strapped to his forehead.
Behind me, Ulysses chuckles at my doomed snark and fires up an oldTech relic that huddles against the wall. One of its discs- yeah, go figure how they stored data on those fucking things, it’s black magic- rolls into the machine; cue scratchy music. Earworm beat that makes my heel bounce against the stool’s leg. Rustic, smooth voices made retro all-naturally by the degradation in the speakers. As the machine warms up and the song reaches its stride, he passes behind the bar and pulls out a tumbler for himself, shot glass for me.
I arch an eyebrow behind my bangs when he pours the first drink without asking. Cinnamon whiskey. “Turning into Krey?”
He smiles and starts mixing his own, straight bourbon. “He was always giving you one of these, first thing in the door.”
“You noticed?”
“I thought it was funny.”
“Heh. And a little too on the nose.” Throwing caution to the creepy abyssal wind, I down the shot in one go and flick it back across the counter with my fingertip. “This stuff is gross.”
“Doesn’t seem to keep you from drinking it.”
He pours it again. I tilt this one back and forth in the bar’s warm halogens; the lone spot of light in the gym. Tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. “Maybe I have a soft spot for fiery stuff.”
“You could also be an alcoholic. Wouldn’t be the first thing you adopted from Sarah.”
I take the second shot a little slower. Let the roughness in my throat finally take hold of my voice. “Can you mix me one of hers?”
Ulysses sits against the counter, jar of lemonade in his hands, slowly turning it over. “It’s not an easy drink.”
I quietly finish the shot, noting the somberness we’re laughing to cover. There’s something different between us now. Different from when he saw me the Kwa-Hon, different from that first call I made when I was running from the Orange. He was only concerned about me, like another one of the kids in his gang. But now that we’ve had a second to breathe, I know from the way his tone’s slowly shifted that he sees what I see in the mirror. A little less protective now than earlier. Less a father, more a friend. Easier, in that way he used to have with Sarah behind closed doors, when he didn’t have to keep face in front of gangs or children or enemies.
Seeing him finally letting his guard down, I match the honesty as best as I can. Let the surface bullshit stay unsaid. Enjoy the drink in silence. And be real with him.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“You don’t know what to do either,” I say. Rest my hands on the counter, examine the taped-over knuckles, his handiwork. “I saw it, when you were giving orders. They were all looking to you for something to hold onto. Anything. And they trusted you when you started telling them what to do. But you were just bullshitting them because they needed to believe everything was fine, that you have a plan.” I look up. “Weren’t you?”
Ulysses takes his time in pouring Sarah’s drink. Vodka first, way more than even the loosest definition of a double. Then the lemonade splash. Ice comes last, two cubes, a test of sobriety and skill. Not a drop overflows as he slides it between my hands, resting his elbows on the counter beside.
“The day you realize that is the day you become an adult, too.” He pours a tiny cup of Nirvalian Blue and clinks it against my glass. “Cheers.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Start by telling me what happened, start to finish. It’ll buy me some time to think of a little more bullshit.”
I smile, but my voice sinks. “I already told you everything yesterday.”
“Do it again. I’m an old man, need a refresher sometimes.”
I take a careful sip of the drink and holy fuck. Grimacing, I set it back down. “That night, after the Thirteen, I made a deal with Krey to cover the dock Sarah wanted to hit. I couldn’t get a hold of him the entire next day. Should’ve known something was up then. But we had a schedule and one shot to make it.” I brave another taste. “Around sunset, we snuck on a cargo transport making a delivery to the Orange. It was all good then. Had some rough floorplans to where the Executor was going to be and an evac route for after. We got to the docks. Guys coming around to open the doors, guns ready, and…”
The explosion roils in front of me; that terrible heat licking at my face.
“…there was a bomb,” I mutter, blinking quickly. “It… it went off the moment the doors opened.”
“Inside the transport?”
“Outside, already there. Like they were waiting for us.” I frown down at the drink. “Like they knew exactly when and where we were going to show up.”
“A trap?” Ulysses runs a thumb along his jaw. “Emilia, did you tell anyone other than Krey? Did anyone see you boarding the transport? Anywhere nearby?”
“No, no. We were clean. At least, I think we were.” I shake my head. “They couldn’t have known, unless an enforcer with a sixth-sense class felt us coming from a while away. But the truck was insulated. Sarah picked it because of that.”
“Insulated enough to stop an Iros?”
“I… I don’t know. But they would have had to randomly be sightseeing at a loading dock for caviar right before we showed up. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Another sip. Ulysses broods over the revelation for a moment, looks like he hits the same brick wall I did, then waves me on.
“And after the bomb?”
“That was when the Armiger showed up.” I see it whenever I blink, a new frame every time. “He took Sarah’s Sixer and did it right there. I…” My nails scrape in against the wood and I swallow a mouthful of liquor. “…I ran. I left her. I left her, Ulysses. I could have tried to shoot him right then and there, but she told me to run, and I ran.”
He lays a heavy hand over mine. The night keeps snowballing in my head, spilling out as I relive it over and over again. Hear the Sixer’s clang in my ears, a dozen times, then a dozen more.
“I stimmed myself with Shatter and kept going. They almost caught me, but I found one of their private exfil lifts. Lain and Matthias were already inside and hacking it. We got out, they dragged me to Nero’s, and…”
“…and that’s when you called me.” He taps his empty glass twice against the wood, loosing a hollow knock into the gym. “You’ve been brave on your own.”
Brave? I’ve been stupid. Hotheaded. All the things Sarah warned me against. But I haven’t changed at all.
The oldTech disc reader skips to another song behind me, churning like an unhappy brook. My head comes to rest between my hands. “Sarah had a plan, and it’s toast now. The Eight are dead. Their lieutenants… they’re not going to last long. Dynasty’s taking over. It’s only a matter of time before they come for you to end the circle and take over the Vents. What are we going to do?” My lips flatten into a hard line. “It’s over. For all of us.”
Ulysses thinks for a long, quiet moment. That’s his special presence, I’m starting to realize. Just a part of why people find themselves listening to him so easily. He has a way of mulling things over, never quick to judge, a wisdom rarely seen in the Vents. I want to know what he has to say, so I wait, finishing off the rest of the diesel fuel concoction he mixed for me.
“You’re not wrong,” he eventually says, clearing his throat. “Unless a miracle happens, Dynasty will come here next. Whether in a month or a week or a day, it doesn’t matter. It is over, for the Vents we both used to know. Things will change after tonight. But that doesn’t mean it has to be over for you.” He reaches to his belt and pulls out an old, battered JOY. The twelve-sided shell coughs when he taps on the projector button, then eventually grumbles out a faded, electric-blue holoscreen. “Years ago, I promised Sarah I would take care of you if her work ever caught up to her. I’ve already called in a favor. You’re leaving the Vents. Tomorrow.”
I jerk back. “What?”
“I still have some friends in the minor league. Tomorrow, one of those friends will be waiting for you at the Electric Town metro station with everything it’ll take to enter you in a combat university. A new social profile, clean identity slate and fight record, and enough credits to make a few months rent.” He taps at something on the screen. “It won’t be much, and it won’t be easy, but it will be enough.”
I’m actually stunned.
“I-I can’t leave,” I say, still reeling. “What about Sarah? Dynasty? The Armiger? The Vents is shit, but it’s our home!” I lean back on the stool, lips shocked open. “Maybe I can get out before Dynasty takes over. Sure. But what about everyone else who lives here? What about you? Are you just going to wait for them to round you up and execute you?” My head starts shaking. “No. No. I’m not just going to leave. Sarah would never leave people like that.”
“Emilia.”
“No. Don’t bullshit me,” I splutter. “All I could do after she died was keep running, Ulysses. Look where that’s gotten us. I can’t keep doing it. I promised I’d put a bullet in that fucking masked bastard’s head-”
“Emilia.”
He watches me catch my next breath. Waits for the anger to drain from my cheeks. Curls his hand over mine.
“You know as well as I do that Sarah didn’t want you to stay in the Vents forever.” My lip trembles. A patient squeeze around my fingers, around the 6-Teba’s battered frame. “You are right. She wouldn’t leave. But that’s because this,” he looks out the open bay, “this, is her world. She never wanted it to be yours.” He holds my hand there. “I’m doing this for Sarah. Don’t throw her love away for anger.”
I shake there on the stool, clenching and unclenching around the gun. Suck in a ragged breath through gritted teeth. The idea of skipping off to a cushy life in the overcity, of becoming one of those people I’ve hated so much while the rest of the Vents is consumed by Dynasty, it repulses me more than anything else. How many years have I spent watching them from the gutter? How could I ever live with myself knowing there’s so many more being strangled by the undercity? Those binders I stole from Carto Bask, those teenagers I sprung from the slave cages… how could I ever just abandon and forget them? The city waiting up there is just a dream. We’re the price they pay to make it reality.
But.
But then I remember the last sunset I had with her. Her asking- begging- for me to think about leaving. Everything she’s ever done for me to have that better life.
And slowly, I swallow down that loathing, and I nod for Ulysses.
“I’ll… do it.”
He sighs quietly, relief easing the tension in his shoulders.
Leaving my hand clenched around the gun, Ulysses stands back up from the bar, sliding his JOY into his pocket as it begins to vibrate with a call. “You can take the bunk in my office tonight. Do you still know the way?”
Numbly, I nod again.
Tomorrow.
It doesn’t feel real. Tomorrow, the only life I’ve ever known will be gone, and I’ll be starting from zero. But I’ll never be able to forget what I abandoned to the syndicate. Not when I still feel in some part of my heart that there’s still something I could have done to stop it.
“What about you?” I ask, glancing at his JOY.
“If I come back to the office at all, the big chair and I are well acquainted, have no fear.” Twisting his back from side to side to pop a couple vertebra, Ulysses slips past me to go shut off the disc reader. He leaves me his half-finished drink.
I finish it slowly.