Pollen

A small fad in a big market at the right time can change everything—quickly. Today was supposed to be Rome’s crowning achievement of the year. He was ready to launch New Hanoi’s spiciest ice cream. He’d been planning the launch for months at his café. He had local artists, musicians and an ice-cream-eating contest organized.

He’d sent Hazel out to cover the entire Eastern Tangle with flyers and posters—much to her annoyance. He placed thousands of targeted ads across the network promoting the day, which included prizes of free kilojoules of portable power and a storytelling session for children. He did not want this to be simply a product launch; this was an event, and he wanted a big crowd. He didn’t even care if they spent any money. This ice cream was unique to his shop and he hoped the dish would appeal to the locals’ famously hot palate and taste for fun. As he always said, “Never underestimate the people’s need for something novel.”

His mind, however, was wandering. He kept thinking about Claypool’s menacing smile and Cinderella’s warnings. His sleep had been punctuated with half-lit dreams, and he would awake to feel the coolness of an empty bed. Mae had stayed home last night, the first time she’d done so in over a month. He found himself thinking of her on his way to work, wishing she would finally move in. He barely noticed all the minor details and annoyances of his commute—the heat, the people, the idiots cutting in front of him. None of it had the usual effect. He felt an uneasy tingle about him, like the first time you realize you’ve done something wrong and nothing can ever rectify the situation.

As he turned the corner to his shop, he saw Mae, leaning against the high-impact plastic shop cover, checking her heels. She was dressed in a devilishly tailored ivory shirtdress, clinched at the waist with a narrow belt and ending just above her knee. She had not seen him yet and so he continued to stare. She was luminescent against the golden background of yellow street dirt in the morning sun. Finally aware of his presence, she looked up. Her long black hair was tied in tight victory rolls and a subtle smile emerged from her lips. Rome braced himself for the conversation, but as he got closer he realized it might go better if he were more relaxed and not so defensive. He switched between these two emotions with almost every step, and there seemed to be an awful amount of walking to do to get to her. Finally he managed a smile, half relaxed and half on the defense—like a drunk trying to impress a pretty woman after a ten hour bender.

“Hi,” he said, then breathed on the lock. The plastic began to roll up slowly into the awning.

“Hello.” Mae whispered. She seemed ready to burst out laughing.

“I . . .er . . .” Rome stammered. “I missed you yesterday.”

“I missed you, too, you idiot.”

She threw herself at him, squeezed him tightly, and gave him a big strong kiss. Rome’s relief was immediate. What she meant to him was more than he understood. They believed in each other, loved and even needed each other, but refused to own up to it. Instead, they created chaos and drama to retain each other’s attention.

As they entered the shop, the stillness of old objects instantly put Rome at ease. Their footsteps on the creaking pine wood floor was the only sound. A moment only a couple can share. He felt a serenity creep over him, reassuring him that everything was going to be all right. Rome leaned against the glass counter full of brooches and all things that glittered—Mae’s collection of jewelry. He watched her slowly slide up next to him, their thighs gently brushing together.

“So look, here’s the deal,” she said matter-of-factly. “I flew off the handle and you were being condescending. Fair?”

“Fair,” he said. This was Mae’s apology. He’d never hear the words, but then this time, he didn’t want to.

“So I promise to take a deep breath and not attack, if you take a deep breath before you say something that makes me feel as small as a fruit fly.” She pinched her thumb and forefinger together.

“Okay, sounds good to me, but I want you to know, I was in the wrong,” he said. A pulse of relief shot through him. She kissed him, and gently stroked his face. Order had been restored. “So how was your day?” he asked.

“Not great. I was in such a temper that I screamed at this kid, this ‘emerging’ artist.” She rolled her eyes. “Thought he knew how to display his work, but he was trying to drown out all the other exhibitions. Idiot. Clients don’t seem to realize this is what I do for a living: I present things perfectly. Anyway, it’s this piece on the favelas, a big pile of rubble, but it’s not made out of mud brick, and it’s got carbon tubes twisting through slates of broken glass and at the center, a power unit. The piece starts when he sets fire to it. The whole thing’s coated in this synthetic gas that burns without destroying the object it’s on. So the glass cracks and shatters with the heat, but the power unit doesn’t get damaged.”

“Like the dense urban core ringed by rapidly changing cultural communities?”

“Exactly. So, we argue for ages, I . . . well, I fly off the handle at him, and I get my way, but what a pretentious little runt. Still, at least it wasn’t another second-rate social commentary piece about claustrophobia, the life of living in a prison or some such self-indulgence.” She put on her art critic voice, slightly nasal, with her lip a little curled up and subtle frown. “It is difficult to overstate the humanitarian impact of the walls. New Hanoi’s communities are severed; people’s access to services and religious and cultural amenities are all restricted by the physical element of an outside dictatorship.” She huffed. “Please, get over it! We are not going anywhere, so enjoy what you have. If this next generation of artists doesn’t start changing their tune, we are going to enter an era of real cultural depression. Ahhh.” Mae took a deep breath. “I’ve been meaning to get that off my chest.”

“Glad to help.” Rome smiled. He loved her rants--the passion, the opinion. He knew there was more, so he stayed quiet.

“Plus,” and this she stressed with her hands, “There’s two little boys at the show, both brown haired and super cute, about six years old each one. One of them is deaf, though. So the kid who can hear asks me ‘what’s wrong with him?’ I said, ’what’s wrong with you? He doesn’t have his hearing, you don’t have blond hair.’ I thought that was a pretty good answer, thought you’d have been proud of me with that one—but his mum was outraged!” Mae shook her head. “So how was your day?”

“Pretty strange. I’ve got some stories to tell you, and in my office should be something very interesting. I’ve not seen it yet; I wanted to save it if I saw you . . .”

“If?” She tilted her head. “Rome, I love you, and one argument isn’t ending our relationship. For a smart guy you’re pretty dumb when it comes to women.”

“You have a point there.” Rome laughed and shyly turned away and headed to his office. There he found a long, thin rectangular box wrapped in red paper and tied with a green ribbon. It was propped up against the door. He looked around as if to see if anyone else was here, but he knew that was stupid. Whoever delivered this package wanted him to know that he could get to him anywhere, anytime. Mae peeked over his shoulder.

“Is that another apology from Hazel?”

“No, this isn’t her style. Mae, there’s some really strange things going on right now.”

He approached the box as if it were a ticking bomb. Mae’s eyes sharpened, aware something was wrong. Rome gingerly picked up the box, untied the ribbon and lifted the top off. Set inside, on green ultra-silk, was a long, thorny rose. The pattern of petals hypnotized them both. Lilies were the only flowers that survived in Little Hanoi. They’d never seen a rose, and it was like looking at a baby for the first time, an instant bond formed. He nodded at the door and Mae locked it. They laid the box on the table, and both stood back, admiring its complexity. The thick ruby petals, the intricate design.

“What is that?” Mae said, still gazing.

“It’s a rose.”

“I’ve not even seen one of these in a book.”

“They are, historically speaking, incredibly important flowers.” Rome said, touching a thorn lightly. “Roses are ancient symbols of love and beauty. It was sacred to a number of goddesses; the ancient Greeks and Romans identified the rose with their goddesses of love, Aphrodite and Venus.”

“Okay, hold up, history geek, who are ancient Greeks and Romans?”

“This is one of those moments where I turn into a condescending prick, right?”

“Usually. Hey it’s not my fault my whole education—like everyone else’s—was through the Network. Of course that’s not a full picture, I’m not that ignorant. You know the score, though: think too much about the outside and you’ll go crazy. Remember that Angela Swofford? Now there’s a lesson for us all to be happy with what you have and not to focus on what you don’t.”

“True.” Rome breathed heavily out of his nose. He’d spent years studying his secret collection of books on the world. He’d traded with various black market figures; he had more information on the outside than anyone. “They are very old civilizations, but the Romans would place a wild rose at the door of a room where secret affairs were discussed—‘under the rose’ they called it. It means to keep a secret.”

“Rome, just what the hell did you get up to yesterday?”

“Well, a gangster threatened me if I didn’t give him details about a meeting with a Trader, and the Trader sort of threatened everyone, depending on what I did with this rose.”

“Can’t have a normal day like everyone else can you? Who the hell was the gangster?”

“A gentleman named Claypool, a captain for the Brothers’ Resistance.”

“The Brothers’ Resistance? Shit, Rome, have you been trading off the book again? Actually, don’t answer that.” She shook her head. “So okay, he wants to stick his nose into something he’s sniffed out in the rumor mill, I get that, but why did a Trader threaten everyone? That’s the same as you threatening every customer coming into the shop.”

“Depends. If a customer bought something because they felt threatened, I’d threaten more of them.” Rome went to sit down, but under his desk was a large silver box. He placed the box on the table. Inside was a slim white machine with a gray touchscreen interface, a black cube next to the interface set on heavy black legs with several blue cables coiled up and inserted into round holes at the base. A simple looking device, but the technology inside could crack genomes.

“What is it?” Mae asked.

“It’s a genome sequencer.” He’d read about these in his books. “This type of kit is, well, it’s impossible. I mean, you need a big machine in a sterile lab with a team of technicians to run those kinds of tests. The genome is the entirety of an organism’s heredity information; it’s the blueprint to what makes it what it is. But this is unreal. I’ve never seen it so compact.”

“Rome, are you telling me that thing can read your DNA?”

“That’s pretty much it, yeah.”

“Do you think they want you to run the DNA of the rose?”

“Yes. But I don’t know how to do that.”

The comm port buzzed out. An encrypted message arrived on a particularly large beetle. Rome began the decryption still a little dazed. The situation had begun to dawn on him. All lilies in New Hanoi were genetically modified crops. They were given coding to produce amphetamines for highs, or a pollinated form of THC for those looking for a relaxed time, but all of them were lilies.

New Hanoi was a perfectly controlled environment. The majority of the citizens inside had either been brainwashed or lived in fear of the death that lay outside the walls, so much that they did not want to escape. No information from the outside got in. All digital and analog signals were blocked, and the Traders knew better than to run their mouths off. Rome had gleaned a few bits of information, though; he even knew that a series of weather-control cannons placed far around the city were the reason there were never any clouds, no rain or storms. Not a single cloud had passed overhead in Rome’s lifetime. The only crack in the otherwise self-contained bubble were the lilies. However, he had never understood why only lilies entered the district, or why people could import different foods from the Traders but not different flowers. This rose was proof that the outside world was trying to communicate.

The encryption from the beetle fed up into Rome’s OLED screen, the Nanopore Solution 301XZ instruction guide flashed up in bold print. He laid it out on the table. A slight tremble overcame him for a second while he pondered the thought of the outside world being . . . real. The message was huge; an entire database of instructions had downloaded onto his screen. Rome went to check back on the beetle but it had gone. Whoever sent this had access to some top-end tech.

Following the detailed step-by-step guide, Rome worked through the morning while Mae headed the shop front, running diversion and organizing Danny and Hazel for the big day.

Rome cut away at the stem of the rose and placed it in the small black cube at the top of the device. The nodule sucked in the plant matter. He repeated this using a lily. As he wrote down the criteria he required to identify the root code of the plant, the blue tubes unfurled, like octopus tentacles. The organisms’ chromosomal DNA and chloroplasts were sequenced, but the data on over six billion letters in an individual DNA strand caused the Nanopore to wheeze under the strain. The alphabetical code filtering into the interface was transferred to his OLED. The constant stream of letters, billions of them, whizzed through his mind. He tried to pick out patterns but there were none, not to his untrained eye.

The complexity of a single strand of DNA flung him off into thoughts of how elegant, how amazing science was. He remembered the first time he’d questioned his own beliefs, the first time he realized that all he “knew” could be bullshit. Rome was thirteen years old, and like all children, he threw himself from one adventure to another. He’d heard of the walls through a friend and he desperately wanted to visit them. It sounded like a whole world of mystery: these dark brooding fortress walls, and on the other side, a faceless enemy hatching evil plans. He begged everyone to let him go and see the walls, yet no one, not his teachers, his friend’s parents, nor his family, would let him go. They all said that the walls protected them from nonbelievers, from liars, cheats, and murderers, to which Rome replied, “But there are liars, cheats, and murderers inside, too.” It set a chain reaction of wild ideas through his head. Where was the logic in a wall built to protect them against people who were just like them?

An hour passed and Rome’s eyes hadn’t left the screen. He slowly began to see that the rose and the lily were not only different flowers, but that both specimens were more engineered than natural. The structure of the DNA turned mechanical, processed. It wasn’t until mid-morning when he found something remarkable. A fragment DNA strand emerged from the data gathered from both the lily and the rose. In the code was a clearly grafted-together, redundant strand. This strand had no impact on the development of the organism. Within this he saw a key among the jumbled letters: “District Twelve” for the lily and “District Fourteen” for the rose. This rose belonged to the people in another part of the city.

He made the call to Cinderella on his OLED immediately.

“Hello,” she answered, breathing heavily.

“District Fourteen,” Rome said sharply.

“That’ll blow your mind, right? It’s called Little Tokyo.”

“But, does this mean the air is breathable on their side? What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Rome, if you climbed over the walls right now, you would choke to death in about three minutes. But, there are some of us in the world who see the plight of your people, and we believe wholeheartedly that your situation is a huge violation of human rights. Hell, wars have nearly started in your name. You’re born, you live, and you die in a prison. You should have the choice to leave or not. If you choose to stay, it’s not a prison anymore, is it? It’s home.”

“What are you telling me, that the whole world is watching us?”

“No. Not at all. You’re not the only ones.”

“We’re not the only ones? There are more cities like this?”

“Yes. But you are, by far, the oldest and largest—you were the first. You formed the blueprint for the other megacities. But you have more power than you think. The world outside your walls is disintegrating. They need you. Listen, Rome, there’s no more time. If you choose to make a trade meet Mr. Sorin at the Sis bar in the tunnels at eight p.m. tonight. If you go to him, your life will be forever changed. Whatever you know, whatever you’ve been taught about the Traders, the Flower Factory, about your situation, is bullshit. But one truth does remain: you can’t escape. Not yet, anyway.”

“What am I trading?”

“You. We need you. I’ve got to go. They are already here. Rome, one last thing, if the Runners come for you, your only hope is . . .”

The connection suddenly terminated.

* * *

Rome left the shop through the back door. He needed some time and space. Panic set its cold hold on him. He wasn’t a leader; he never had been, just a teenage hot-head. It seemed the outside world had been following his steady rise in the hearts and minds of the community. As his shop and café, with its music nights and performance spaces, became increasingly popular, he was perceived as a leader of the community, a community that had been watched for years.

He needed a coffee, so he headed for his favorite caffeine house, the Riverside. He looked around and watched people going about their daily business and wondered how many of them were thinking about whether living inside this city was unjust. He wondered if they were content knowing little of the world. If their minds, filled with little more than gossip, marriages, and kids, were truly satisfied enough to live a happy life. The visible evidence was clear; there were only six objects that could be seen from within New Hanoi. The five sky-scraping towers that made up the City Center to the north, and to the east, the Flower Factory. The community had appeared to forget that there was a world beyond this metropolis.

Suddenly he thought of the building contractors who’d refused to consider his plans for building a five-story-high viewing platform for the Eastern Tangle. Nothing was built over five stories high. The propaganda about enemies over the walls was deep-seated. Outside was a world full of death.

Cinderella had told him that people around the world wanted to free them. Perhaps it was because they realized that they were no different from the citizens of New Hanoi. They were people with hopes and flaws, just like him. What was to keep them from being incarcerated in a similar fashion? What was keeping the people of this community, New Hanoi, from revolution, from escape?

Rome believed that the answers would be found within the five towers of the City Center and the colossal smokestacks of the Flower Factory. The smokestacks must have been two miles high, as though God’s finger was pointing back up at him. They shimmered gray in the sunshine; Rome guessed they must have been made of reinforced carbon-nano wire. A constant plume puffed out straight into the atmosphere. If ever there was an effective reminder that the outside world was big and dangerous, the Flower Factory was it. Millions of flowers were processed every day, churning out colors like an oil-splashed river onto conveyer belts that stretched through vast warehouses beyond the walled city. That’s how Rome imagined it. Workers toiling day and night to meet demand in botanical-garden heat, as trapped as those they were working for.

He sat, arms folded, at a cheap plastic table under a café awning. Eyes closed. He sucked humid air through his nose. Slowly his chin sank onto his chest. But he wasn’t sleepy. He was scheming.

Rome opened his eyes and perceived he was being watched. He peered down the intersection. A tangle of wires joining the dots of buildings swayed in the breeze. High above, a dark, titanic cloud heaved its belly over the horizon, where it was slashed into ribbons by the sky-scraping City Center. The price paid for their gruesome ambition as the terrible monster poured down upon them.

Then, the beast swallowed the street whole. It hammered and pounded its millions of fists into the concrete and corrugated-steel roofs. A tremendous noise, a noise like war, ricocheted between buildings.

The rain roared up at him faster than he’d expected. It brought a coolness that he embraced. A relief he’d never known. He walked out from the shelter of the café and into the street with a smile, feeling the rain hit his skull while ripples of sensation moved through him, massaging his bones. Puddles and little rivers formed and meandered through the imperfections of the street, through abandoned food carts, and toward the bemused spectators.

Almost as quickly as it had come, the downpour moved on. The long tail of the monster slithered over the intersection, and dim patches of sunlight picked their way through the breaking clouds. The street sighed, then groaned under the weight of the water that had nowhere to go. And with that, Rome knew that his allegiance had shifted. He knew that he would make the trade. Your senses never lie—but people do.

* * *

“Oh my god, how amazing was that?” Mae ran out of the shop and jumped on him as he approached though the crowds. She was dripping wet.

“Been playing in the rain?” Rome said and kissed her neck.

“Amazing! Hell, I beat the kids to go run around in it!”

“I bet you did.” Rome laughed. “Not that I’m blowing my own trumpet, but I was first out in the rain, too. I was at the Riverside with a coffee, saw the thing roar up the intersection straight at the café—the noise of it.”

“Oh wow, everyone is gonna be up for a party! Spicy ice cream all the way.”

Rome pulled her to one side, away from the noise of the crowd. “You don’t think people are a little afraid?”

“Why? I mean we all know what it is, it’s in movies all the time, but to see it, to feel it, that’s a good thing.”

“If it had happened naturally . . . Mae, that rose.” He leaned in and whispered, “I found a code in its DNA. It read ‘District Fourteen,’ which is a place called Little Tokyo.”

Mae’s smiled dripped off her as her face turned a pale gray. She licked her lips and stared at the floor. Her eyes darted from left to right, trying to assimilate this revelation. “Who are they?”

“They are our neighbors. And the rain, Mae, that’s one surefire way to let everyone in the entire city know that a change is coming. We are so perfectly controlled in here and suddenly, without warning, after generations of pure blue skies, it rains. It rains on the day I received that rose.”

“You’re right, it’s no coincidence. So whatever is happening is going to happen now?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, what’s going to happen?”

“I have no idea, but the Trader said that the outside world needs us, that we have been watched for years. We are the biggest city with walls and we serve a purpose for the world.”

“You mean there’s more?”

“That’s what she said.”

“This is . . . this is transformative, all my assumptions . . .” Mae talked to herself. “If this got out, there’d be chaos.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Yes, we do. How would you feel if someone could prove to you you’d lived your entire life in a prison? What would you do with that? I tell you what wouldn’t happen: people wouldn’t sit down calmly and talk about the implications of this. They’d go straight to the walls and start throwing bricks.”

“Not if they’ve got a leader, a figurehead with the answers and a vision they can get behind.”

“But there is no leader.” She paused, aware there was a question she’d not asked yet. “Rome, tell me it’s not you.” She paused and stared deeper and studied his face for a clue to her question. “Oh no, not again.”

“I’m going to find out for sure tonight. I’ve got a meeting in the tunnels.”

“Fine, I’m coming with you.”

“Mae, the first question I asked was if you were going to be safe. You come with me and I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know who is watching us. I don’t even know who the enemy is yet.”

“Rome, let’s face it, if something did happen, you’d say something clever, kick ’em in the shins and run. I’d kick ’em in the nuts, then run.” She paused for a moment, “Good, glad that’s been decided. Between now and then you need to act as normal as possible, because you can be sure that you are being watched. Now, I think you’ve got an event to run—have you noticed?” She gestured at the crowd. “They’re here for you.”

The café was packed, and the overspill crammed the street. It seemed his plan of an ice cream eating competition had tapped into people’s consciousness. Everyone was smiling. All of them were drenched, elated at such an historical event and that they were there to see it, to feel it. The water formed puddles and small rivers that people were hopping over, or jumping right into. The café was a slippery mess of mud and Rome nearly slipped onto his knees making his way through.

The show kicked off with a comedian mocking the soggy audience. Rome laughed along, arm in arm with Mae. Samples had been given out to over two hundred people, and the spicy ice cream seemed to go down well. It was a festival atmosphere, and for a few moments Rome forgot all about his impending responsibilities—until he saw a familiar face in the crowd.

He stood among the laid back audience and laughed along with the jokes. His sweaty white shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing a thick gold chain that hung like a trophy on his giant chest. Pulses of menace emitted from his lips with every grin. Claypool had the untouchable arrogance of a boxer in a battle he was sure to win. He caught Rome’s eye, but seemed happy enough to watch the show—he knew who was in charge.

“Mae,” Rome whispered. “Claypool, he’s here.”

“Ah,” she said keeping a false smile on her face, “I did wonder about the giant guy with the gold cross. Not your usual arty, geek type is he?”

“Can you hide the machine and the rose? If I go he’ll know something’s up.”

“Sure, what’s the plan?”

“He can’t know what we know, but we need to spin him a fairy tale.” Rome was subject to the coldness he’d felt the night before. He believed when faced with fear there were two types of people: the logical ones and the fiery ones. Those who assess trouble like a game of chess, and those who shout, scream, and holler to find a solution. Rome was a chess player. He closed his eyes for a second and took a long deep breath through his nose. When he opened his eyes he was smiling.

Mae casually made her way to the office. The comedian cracked his last punchline, and the crowd was happy and chatty when Rome took to the stage. He’d set up a long table with ten chairs and positioned himself behind the table with the wireless microphone. He took a quick look around the room and stepped up onto a raised platform. He’d done this before, yet a nervous twitch always attacked his knee. The noise of the cheering crowd held him steady. He looked down at his two-tone, beaten-up shoes and had a second to compose himself.

He knew there were around a hundred seated, but at the back and out toward the street there must have been at least another hundred standing. Some on tiptoes, others with their Net-pads lifted high, recording. The sunlight shot in like bright spears piercing the side of the café. It was beautiful; the satisfaction of a packed event quelled all his daily doubts about life and, under normal circumstances, kept him distracted for months.

All the effort was worth it. He felt a broad smile emerge on his face and his fingers began to tingle. A small shot of panic hit his knees again, but as he lifted his eyes to the audience, he couldn’t feel his body anymore. He was a voice, a sound that had the ear of the crowd. His body was in auto-entertain mode. He was expressive, full of gestures that involved different sections of the crowd. He was a different man.

“Ladies and gentleman, give it up for our comic master, Mr. Meredith.” The crowd cheered. Rome caught Claypool’s eye, and even he cheered. There was something about Claypool’s absolute lack of urgency that impressed Rome. “Now it’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for—no, it’s not the thief’s hand-chopping. It’s the ice cream challenge! I need ten volunteers from the audience for New Hanoi’s ultimate gastro challenge. The challenge before you brave souls is to eat a bowl of the spiciest ice cream this town has even known. The winner takes home this tub of ice cream,” he pointed to Hazel who was holding up a very large tub, before running off to the freezer again. “Don’t forget: it’s spicy. And if any of you are sweating and reach for these cold glasses of water, or look as though you are in trouble, our judges will declare you out. As an extra bonus, the winner not only gets the ice cream but this trophy.” Danny held a large, fake gold, number 1 trophy in the air. “So—let’s get some worthy contestants!”

Rome started picking faces out from the crowd. Young and old were jumping at the chance to prove themselves as the ice cream king or queen. Then, as he picked his eighth contestant, Rome had a moment of pure calculation infused with a little stupidity. He pointed directly at Claypool. Claypool’s menace mushroomed as he glared back and the crowd cheered. “You look like you’re a man who never lets a challenge pass him by. Come on up, you’re not gonna let the crowd down and let some ice cream beat you?” Claypool looked around at the laughing crowd, cheering him on.

“I cannot refuse,” he said clearly, with purpose.

“And what do you do, sir?” Rome could feel the perspiration gather down his back and a light tremble in his stomach, but his voice never wavered, holding clear and confident.

“I’m a bare-knuckle prize fighter.” Claypool moved his heavy frame like a bear to the table.

“Well, let’s see if you fight your way through this one.” Rome slapped him on the back.

Claypool sat with a thud as Rome picked two more strangers out of the crowd. He selected a little boy about eleven years old and a smart-looking woman in her thirties. An ice cream bowl for each contestant arrived with a large spoon, and next to each bowl, a glass of ice cold water.

“The water can only be drunk when you have thrown in the towel; anyone drinking while eating will be disqualified. Okay, everyone ready?” The contestants’ eyes widened, the crowd murmured, the sweltering heat of the day already started to melt the ice cream. “Hazel, turn the fans off, please, it’s gonna get sticky in here.” Hazel powered down the overhead fans and instantly the room grew hotter. “Everyone, five, four, three . . .” He let the crowd finish with a roar and shouted, “Go!”

Rome tried desperately, mustering all his self-control, not to laugh at the sight of a villainous man chomping down ice cream with a big spoon, looking more and more like a child with every big mouthful, but he couldn’t. Claypool’s instinct as a competitor came out in him. An animal so highly trained in affairs of fear and strength, whose vanity couldn’t let a single challenge pass him by.

Rome almost respected him for a second, yet the ominous way he spooned down the ice cream was relentless. Other contestants paused with brain freeze or laughed as their friends recorded them, but Claypool continued mercilessly. Best of all, he could not look Rome in the eye. He knew he was on Rome’s turf here; a crowd of two hundred all here because Rome has asked them to come. It was his middle-class army.

Suddenly Claypool’s concentration stopped. A torrid flow of sweat poured from his forehead. He put the spoon down, blinked rapidly several times and then looked at the ceiling as he breathed heavily. He rolled his eyes at the eleven-year-old next to him, still happily scoffing away. He pushed the spoon back into the bright red ice cream and swallowed another mouthful slowly. He allowed himself a second of weakness, a slight flinch, and peered at the kid again as the boy finished his last bite and threw his hands in the air, screaming with delight.

Rome stepped forward to congratulate the winner. At that moment, Claypool’s instinct took hold of him and he stood sharply. His concentration focused on someone in the crowd. Rome turned his head to see who he was looking at. A man with long greasy hair, dressed in a cheap suit, opened his jacket to reveal pouches of what Rome assumed to be explosives. He clicked a device in his right hand and looked up. Expecting a sound like death, Rome put his hands to his ears and turned to where he thought Mae was. By now, most people had tuned into what happening and were leaping over loved ones, pushing their hands up to stop the shockwave, like some flimsy paper shield. But nothing happened. Claypool leaped over the table and pushed half the crowd aside. The bomber looked terrified; he’d failed. Suddenly he lost control of his eyes, they spun up, a zombie white flashed for a second, and he fell to his knees.

When Claypool got to him, it was too late—the bomber was already dead. Rome ran over, shouting at people to stay calm. He looked around to see if there was anyone with the bomber, any signs of suspicion, but by now the wave of panic had reached the street and people were scattering.

“What the hell?” Rome shouted at Claypool.

“You!” Claypool turned to Rome and grabbed his throat. “You need to tell me everything. This wasn’t meant for me, this was meant for you. What are you involved in?” He released Rome. “Don’t move,” he said and began searching the dead man. A small group huddled around the body. The bomber appeared much younger than Rome had first thought, a teenager with a light mustache and black hair. As Claypool searched the body for clues, Rome could see that he had clearly done this kind of thing before. He emptied out the young man’s pockets, searching for anything that could help them understand who ordered the bombing.

“Sometimes,” he whispered to Rome, who’d knelt down next to him, “those who know they are going to die will strip themselves of anything that could lead to their employer, but sometimes, they’ll keep something personal—mostly obscure bits of sentimental crap. This prick was an amateur; that’s why his employer had a remote kill switch. It’s a chip in the head; it fries your brain like an egg. He’s got a box of matches from a bar, which either means he’s been there recently, or the place means something to him.”

“What’s the bar?”

“First things first, my friend. What. The fuck. Do you know?” His voice was slow and angry.

“Nothing. Honestly. The Trader told me that it was going to rain today, that the weather control systems were sabotaged.”

“And what did that Trader give you?”

“It’s a machine that scans the makeup of things. She told me to study the rain and make sure it was clean. Then I could tell the people . . . they’d believe me.”

“Why you?”

“Look around. People know me, they respect me for whatever dumb reason. She said they’d sabotaged the weather control system to produce a new source of fresh water. Could open up a very lucrative market for the Traders, and they wanted me to lead it in the district.” Rome had gone over this lie several times and his execution was earnest and precise.

Claypool stood up, looked around at the cluster of people trying to spot the dead bomber. This would be news for months. Claypool’s face would be seen on every news, blog, and gossip rag in town. The whispers had already started; some said a big guy with a cross took the bomber down as he was about to detonate. Others said Rome had warned everyone to get down and some heroes in the café disarmed the bomber. Rome could hear the gossip starting, too, but his eyes were fixed on Claypool. He saw the villainy in his deep, dark eyes brooding like night over a graveyard.

“I’ve got to lie low,” Claypool said in a trance, and then turned to Rome. “You’ll be meeting my friend Cookie very soon. He’ll be your bodyguard twenty-four hours a day, and he reports directly to me.”

“What’s on the matches? What’s the name of the bar?” Rome insisted.

“The Anther. That’s where you met the Trader.”

Rome understood his role now. Any revolution starts with three key ingredients: a local leader, an idea, and the facts to prove the idea has value. He could watch the story unfold, or he could lead the story. If it meant a chance to leave, then he knew what he had to do.