Refraction

  REFRACTION

  NAOMI HUGHES

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  For the One who believed in me

  when all I could see were the shadows

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE COPS START TAILING ME ON BANYAN LANE. I should be worried about the contraband sewn into the bill of my baseball cap, but all I can think about is whether or not I remembered to lock my loft before I left this morning.

  “Marty Callahan,” calls one of the officers in an easy voice, like I’m an old friend he’s spotted at a party. But his eyes are trained on me like I’m a dangerous animal, and whatever Cisco Island is nowadays, it’s definitely no party.

  I give the cops a faux-surprised grin and a middle-finger wave—carefully measuring the amount of disrespect in the gesture, enough to seem normal for me but not enough to piss them off more than necessary—then speed up a little.

  I did lock the loft, I’m sure of it. I can almost hear the way that final, biggest dead bolt clunked heavily when I slid it into place, can almost feel how the rusted padlock flaked in my hand when I pulled the key out. But the need to go back and check just in case tugs at me anyway, even though I should be way more worried about the two jokers behind me.

  “We’re talking to you, Callahan,” says another voice. It’s the other officer, the younger one. He sounds a lot less casual than his partner. Which probably means he intends to stop me, pat me down, do a “random” search for the dangerous illegal goods they suspect—but haven’t yet managed to prove—I sell. Any other day, that would be no problem for me. I haven’t moved any goods in weeks. But today, the desperation got a little too strong, and I managed to convince myself the heat had died down enough for me to venture back out. A decision I’m cursing myself for now.

  There’s a small crowd ahead of me, weaving in and out of the early-afternoon shadows cast by the gnarled trees that line this street. The islanders must be headed to the ration dispensary for weekly distribution. Maybe I can merge with them, buy myself some time while I figure out an escape route. I step off the sidewalk and onto the cracked asphalt of the road.

  “Told you he’d rabbit,” mutters the younger officer to his partner. They’re a bit closer now, near enough for me to hear the viciousness in his voice. He wants me to run. He wants to be the one to catch me. I glance at him again, a little longer this time, taking his measure. He’s maybe twenty-five, with a curly mop of bright ginger hair and bright green eyes that are much more expressive than he probably wants them to be. I bet he’s the type who would’ve worn mirrored sunglasses to hide his fear back before they outlawed glasses.

  It’s not a good thing, him being afraid of me. Scared is dangerous. Scared makes mistakes, and mistakes get people killed.

  My mind skitters back to my potentially unlocked loft. The key is in my pocket, I remember. If I was still using the same system as I used to have a while back (left pocket for keys to doors that were currently locked, right for ones that were unlocked), I’d be more sure that I hadn’t accidentally left my home wide open and vulnerable. But I abandoned that key system over a year ago. And, I force myself to remember, it never really worked in the first place anyway.

  “Easy,” says the older cop to his partner. I can see sweat beading on his umber skin from here, but he doesn’t move to wipe it away, keeping his gaze on me. At his side, Ginger is practically vibrating with the need to give chase.

  I reach the back of the crowd and start weaving between the people. I breathe shallowly. I’ll never get used to this smell: unwashed bodies and barely contained terror. It’s everywhere on this godforsaken island, ever since the aliens knocked out our power—and therefore the town’s desalination plant—last year during the Fracture. No one except the mayor and her lackeys can afford to waste precious fresh water on a shower now, and no one goes to the beaches unless they have to.

  When I reach the middle of the crowd, I glance around, trying to map out an escape. Banyan trees line either side of the street here. Their knotty limbs spread overhead, twisting together in a canopy that looks like a thousand interlocking fingers, while thick prop roots dangle down and burrow into the ground. If you look hard at some of the trunks, you can still spot the original tree that’s been long since starved by the banyans that planted themselves in their crevices. This street used to be a big tourist attraction because of these trees, or so I’ve heard.

  The locals call them strangler figs, my brother told me when we first moved here last summer. I can see why the tourists like them so much. Either way, they’re an invasive species.

  I shake off the memory and glance behind me again. Ginger and his partner are coming up through the crowd now, and there’s no viable escape route that I can see. Trying to slip between all the prop roots will slow me down too much. There’s a storm drain with a loose grate south of here that’s served me well in the past, but the cops are between me and it.

  My pulse kicks up a notch. The contraband in my hat is sewn into the brim, its shape hidden by a thin piece of paperboard, but there’s still a chance they’ll realize the weight of the cap is off and tear it apart to find out why. And if they finally get their proof of what I’ve been dealing in my little black-market niche …

  Unthinking in my anxiety, I put a hand in my pocket and curl my fingers around my key. Its teeth bite into my palm: a pain as familiar as breathing. And just like that, the compulsion washes over me like a tidal wave—I need to go back to my loft now, have to be absolutely sure that the dead bolt is drawn and the padlock is secured and no one has broken in during the few hours I’ve been gone. The urge is overpowering, the way it used to be a few years back.

  This is vital, it tells me. This is a matter of life and death. You have to be absolutely certain everything is secure.

  I did lock the door. My loft is secure. I am ninety-nine percent sure of it.

  That’s not enough, it whispers. One percent unsafe is still unsafe.

  And the thing is, I know that little voice is lying. I know exactly what’s happening. My therapy made sure of that. But sometimes the urges still feel as inevitable, as absolutely, impossibly necessary as they used to. And sometimes I forget that trying to fight them only makes things worse. Like now, when I’m so focused on trying to logic my way out of my compulsions that I can’t pay attention to the actual danger that’s coming down the street behind me.

  I need to take care of this, right now. I squeeze the key tighter, roll my neck, and take a deep breath. Then I tell my OCD: Yeah, maybe I did leave everything unlocked, and maybe someone will break in and steal all my stuff. It’s not impossible. Also, screw you.

  The compulsion ebbs, robbed of its fuel now that I’m accepting my fears instead of fighting them. I open my hand and release the key. Finally, I can focus on the actual, real-life trouble at my back instead of my own anxiety. I turn my head to look for the officers.

  “When I give the signal, run,” murmurs an unfamiliar voice about six inches from my right ear.

  I startle. Some guy is walking rig
ht next to me—tall, brawny, with a superhero-esque square jaw and pretty-boy blond hair. He’s around my age, maybe a year older. When he catches my flinch a glimmer of satisfaction sparks in his blue eyes.

  I dislike him instantly.

  He waits for me to ask the obvious questions: who is he, what’s he doing, et cetera. “What’s the signal?” I ask instead, belligerently.

  Something that might someday have aspirations of becoming a smile flits around the corners of his mouth. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

  I narrow my eyes and study him more closely. He looks a tiny bit familiar, but then nearly everyone does after more than a year of being stranded in a cut-off island city with the same three thousand other people. I’m pretty sure I’ve never talked to this guy before, though, which is why I’m suspicious that he apparently wants to help me. If he’s a law-abiding citizen, he wouldn’t offer to help anyone escape the cops. If he’s not law-abiding, I would’ve made his acquaintance before now.

  I wait for him to tell me what he wants. The cops get closer. Ginger is almost within grabbing distance, but he’s having trouble navigating through the people behind us, who are huddled together and talking loudly.

  Pretty Boy is still striding along next to me, smiling that annoying not-smile, silent. He can afford to wait. I can’t. This whole conversation—if you can call it that—is a subtle tug-of-war, and he’s going to win.

  But if he really is willing to help me escape, that’s a trade I have no choice but to take.

  “And what do you want in return for helping me out?” I ask at last, in a low voice so Ginger won’t overhear.

  Pretty Boy doesn’t acknowledge the point he’s scored by making me speak first. “I know what you sell,” he says instead, “and I want to buy.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie coolly—but my brain is moving racecar-fast, trying to figure out how he knows I’m a dealer. There are rumors about me, sure, but there’re rumors about everyone in this tiny town. The only people who have actual reason to suspect me are the cops. He’s too young to be one of them, and he doesn’t look stupid enough to be a rat either. And all my current clients know better than to refer someone without asking me first.

  But if he is a potential new customer and he’s desperate enough to approach me in broad daylight with the cops barely a dozen feet away … I could make some real money off him.

  No. This is the first day I’ve smuggled goods in weeks, and it’s nearly gotten me caught already. I shouldn’t push my luck. I should lie low, hide out, wait for the mayor and her cops to focus their efforts on another target.

  Pretty Boy doesn’t respond for a second. Then he says, “Not even if I’ve got information that can get you to your brother?”

  I stumble to a stop. People push past me. Ginger is ten steps away and I don’t care. “What did you say?” I demand, rounding on Pretty Boy.

  “I’ll trade it to you tonight,” he murmurs quickly, “at the boardwalk, just before sunset.” He glances at Ginger. “But you’ve got to get out of here first.”

  I grab his arm, hold him in place. “What’s the information?” I hiss. The rest of the world is an unimportant blur of background noise.

  He looks at my hand clenched around his arm and raises an eyebrow. My reaction has confirmed how important his information—whatever it is—is to me. I should backpedal. Should reestablish control of the conversation. In my line of work, the most vital rule is to never show your cards, and I’ve just handed him the whole deck.

  I don’t move. I wait for him to speak.

  “I’ll answer your question if you answer one of mine,” he says.

  “Out of the way!” yells Ginger behind us, speaking to the huddle of people between us and him. The older officer is hanging back, still between me and the storm drain.

  “What question?” I demand.

  Pretty Boy nods at the crowd. “Where are these people going?”

  I stare at him. What the hell is he talking about? The crowd is going to the dispensary. Today is ration disbursement. But the tone in his voice is strangely dark, and there’s something odd in his eyes, lurking behind that cool satisfaction.

  I glance up the road. There’s a fork ahead—right to the dispensary, left to the road leading to Valkyrie Bridge. And the crowd … the crowd is turning left. I stop breathing, because there’s only one reason people go to Valkyrie Bridge.

  Pretty Boy pushes my hand off his arm. “Go and see,” he tells me in a low tone. “After you get away. Then decide if you want to do a deal with me.”

  Then Ginger is on us. He grabs my shoulder, straight-arms me out of the crowd. The smell of him washes over me: fresh and crisp with light chemical undertones. It takes me a minute to identify the scent as dryer sheets. An unimaginable luxury in a city where most of the generators ran out of juice long ago. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he warns me, eyes tight and vicious.

  “It’s like you don’t know me at all,” I say with a careless grin even though my heart is thundering in my ears. Caught. I’m caught. As soon as he finds the contraband I’m dead, worse than dead—

  Something moves in my peripheral vision. Pretty Boy is sauntering up behind Ginger. He taps the officer on the shoulder. Ginger turns, and Pretty Boy punches him in the face.

  Ginger hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. I stare at Pretty Boy, startled—and, despite myself, a little bit impressed.

  Pretty Boy turns to me. “In case it wasn’t obvious, that was the signal,” he states calmly. The older cop yells, having spotted his partner on the ground, and barrels toward us.

  I turn and run.

  The crowd is clamoring, confused. I dive into it again and use it for cover as I dart toward the storm drain. Pretty Boy is sprinting in the opposite direction, and the older cop is running after him. Ginger is hauling himself to his feet, his nose spurting blood down his freshly laundered shirt. “Elliott!” he yells after Pretty Boy, like it’s a curse word.

  Elliott. My newest would-be customer. Who the cops apparently know by name—and who claims to have information that can reunite me with my big brother.

  I pry the grate up in one smooth movement and slide down into the damp darkness. No one yells or points me out to the cops or tries to follow me. A clean getaway, at least till the next time I risk smuggling goods to a client.

  Tonight. At the boardwalk, at sunset. I shouldn’t go. The risk is too high. Every time I make another deal, my name rises a little higher on the mayor’s list of suspects. Plus I haven’t had the chance to vet Elliott, don’t know anything about him beyond his name and that he has an impressive left hook.

  But I hesitate anyway as I lower the grate back into place overhead, my hands lingering on the bars, my gaze caught by the view of the northeastern horizon. My brother, Ty, is about three thousand miles in that direction. Some days I can feel him like a lodestone pulling me out over the open sea. Those are the days I stand on the beach and stare squinting into the distance, trying to fool myself into believing I could see London if I just looked hard enough.

  Today all I can see on the horizon are towering gray storm clouds. They look ominous, but not as ominous as the Shatter Ring—Earth’s new ring made up of huge, orbiting shards of reflective alien metal—gleaming above them.

  I grimace and turn my back on the sight. Then I pause, looking at the tunnel around me. West of here, this drain eventually connects to the old phosphate mines that run beneath the whole island. They’re my own private, abandoned, and mostly condemned rabbit warren. My loft—the old head miner’s office—is smack in the middle. I could go home. Rest. Lie low, the way I ought to.

  Or I could go east, to Valkyrie Bridge, and see what Elliott thinks I should see.

  Dread stirs low in my gut. It weighs down my steps when I turn and start walking. I count grates as I go, but there’s no need. I hear the gathered crowd at the bridge long before I reach it.

  “… wish they would just
execute them. It would be more humane …” one voice says nearby.

  “I’m glad it’s not humane,” someone else cuts in. “I hope he suffers for days out there. The punishment fits the crime; that’s the whole point.”

  “But he’s a minor—”

  “One less dealer in town,” says the other voice angrily. “That’s all I care about. There can’t be but a handful of ’em left now for the shadowseekers to catch, and then we’ll finally be safe.”

  I stop. Sunlight pours through the grate in front of me, its bars painting gridlines of shadow across my torso. The comforting darkness of the tunnel is all around me, and I want to crawl back into it, want to hide—from what these people are saying and from the scene that I’m now certain is unfolding above me.

  But I need to see. I need to know for sure.

  I creep closer. A strand of dark hair falls in my face, and I shove it away with shaking fingers. I plaster myself against the tunnel wall and then slowly lift my head just enough to peer out.

  The road here is set into the side of a hill. Directly below, through the legs of the people in front of the grate and over the heads of the crowd lower down the hill, is Valkyrie Bridge.

  Palm trees—long since stripped of their coconuts—frame it to either side, their fronds hanging low under the oppressive August humidity. The bridge’s entrance is guarded by statues of the mythical warrior women it’s named after, their wings draped with sharp-edged feathers, swords held aloft. A few feet behind their backs, bright yellow caution cones are spangled across the road—not that those are necessary to keep folks off the bridge.

  Because just behind the cones, the fog starts.

  It’s a soft, gray nothingness that cocoons the railings, wraps gentle tendrils around the caution cones, swallows up the blocky supports entirely. That smoky haze goes all the way to the mainland. All the way across most of the world, far as anyone around here knows. On a clear day, you can look out over the sound and see it swathing the horizon where there used to be the distant hotels and condos of a normal Florida coastline. Nothing but the occasional ham radio signal from London and Singapore—the only other cities still out there—manages to get very far through it.