The Chaos Grid: The Chaos Grid, #1

1

THE DAY PLEX CITY BURNS to ash will be the best day of my life.

Its scrapers. The dome. Every inch in flames and a smile on my face. It’s no secret. I’ve never been quiet about my hatred of the place. And yet, my aunt and uncle are bent on dragging me back there, positive I’ll help them save whomever they can. But they’re wrong. I will never lift a finger for those people. Not when they murdered my parents.

Today, I escape. Today, I cut the wires that have played me in a cosmic puppet show for good. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself before I step into the neon-lit substation and watch every screen in the building broadcast my broken plans in surround sound.

ATTENTION, SUBSTATION-A PASSENGERS, ALL DEPARTURES AFTER THE 5:15 TRAIN HAVE BEEN INDEFINITELY DELAYED. TICKET HOLDERS WITH LATER DEPARTURE TIMES, MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE CUSTOMER SERVICE DESK FOR FURTHER ASSISTANCE.

The cartoon woman in a sparkling plum uniform smiles when she delivers the blow. Sickeningly sweet, her bared teeth flash across the display screens that cover the walls. I’m sure the station designed her to be friendly, welcoming even, but she comes off like a cheap joke amidst the exploding madness around me. People who’ve lost their only chance of leaving the city today blurt out strings of obscenities as they shove past on their way to the ticket screens. Unable to help myself, I tap my plastic silver holo-cuff. The bright screen lights up half my forearm, and I scroll to my ticket receipt. Tension in my shoulders eases at what I find.

AUSTIN SUBSTATION BOARDING PASS

PASSENGER: JUNIPER CONWAY

SUBSTATION-A – SOUTH AUSTIN, TO SUBSTATION-C – BATON ROUGE: JULY 18, 2224 – 5:15 A.M.

She said 5:15. My ticket is valid. I can still leave this nightmare. I pick up the pace on the moving platform to the check-in point. With all these people rushing to snag leftover seats, the train will be packed, and I’m not about to lose my spot. I pass through a body-sized, holographic ad for a new augmented reality game. I’d stop to watch any other time, but not now. Every second I’m not on that train is a second closer to getting caught.

The platform rolls past a porting dais—a silver slab on the ground large enough for fifteen people to teleport in on. I hold my breath and hope the circular activation lights don’t flash to life until after I’ve moved on. But porting daises are always high traffic. White light blinks on from the dais’ incoming pads. There must be at least ten people teleporting into the station, arriving much faster than the sliding glass door I came through. And paying a pricier ticket for it.

I duck behind a man glowing from his bioluminescent mohawk to his metallic leg enhancements. A synth. Like most people here, he’s altered his body with as much tech as could fit. But an army of synths can’t hide me.

Not when I’m a basic. Refuse the newest body upgrade—you stand out. Refuse all upgrades—or be forced to refuse them by a family who doesn’t trust the tech giants—you might as well burn a look at the freak sign into your forehead. If who I dread comes through that port, they’ll find me for sure.

My pulse hammers. The pad beams spiral up into a long white tube that touches the ceiling two floors up with a snap-hiss. Sterilized air jets whip my straight blue hair over my face with a chilled burst. I shake away the hip-length strands, adjust my yellow hoodie, and clench the black pendant hanging around my neck. My only lifeline.

Don’t let it be Aunt Marna and Uncle Trek. Anyone but them.

When the light fades, people I don’t recognize walk out. I take a breath then shove my duffel bag further up my shoulder.

We arrive at the check-in point, and I step off the platform with the crowd. There aren’t any empty chairs, but a clear spot by one of the ad walls seems like an okay place to wait for the train. I zigzag to the clearing and lean against the wall. Once its ad rolls beside me, I regret my decision.

A shipper ad. The familiar jingle rings out in five ascending tones only those near the wall can hear. Lucky me. Its opening tune chimes light and cheery. The exact opposite of what these guys do for a living. A thin, old woman in a tight olive uniform fills the screen. Her monotone voice spews a recruitment pitch I’ve heard countless times.

With natural food grown in outlying farms in its highest demand in decades, she drones on, her smile forced, "our local shippers couldn’t be more needed. Shipping is not only the best means to transport food from farms to cities across Texas, it’s the only means. With your help, we can do just that. Travel the Grid in our well-protected vehicles. Join a staff of professionals and experts to feed our great state. Our doors are always open. Here at the Texas Area Rural Shippers and Haulers, you can make a difference. We can keep you safe."

The screen fades into the next ad about the newest wrist chargers before I can roll my eyes. Keep you safe? That’s got to be the worst tagline in history. How can anyone keep you safe in the Outer Grid? It’s like this lady hasn’t heard of the Global Weather Collapse. Our ancestors did all they could to fix the dying climate, but only succeeded in pulling the collapse twenty steps closer, birthing the very waste they tried to avoid. At least they gave us the domes. Halfway open, the invisible shields filter the good air into the cities. All the way closed, we’re kept safe from bonkers weather and whatever else is out there. Stepping through the invisible shields that separate us from the Outer Grid is the dumbest idea—even if you’re inside one of those massive shipper trucks. Sure, shippers offer something I need, a paycheck, but I’m not about to travel the Grid to get one. No, I’ll get out of this city the legit and safe way. Underground.

The ad is followed up by a newsreel on the rebel attack in North Austin an hour ago. It’s the reason the substation will shut down. The reason so many people are crammed into this check-in point. Twisted metal from the aftermath of a barrier outpost bombing flashes across the screen in an aerial shot. Dotting the rim of the wreckage, in the wasteland bordering the city’s skyscrapers, tiny people dressed in rags flee the scene. They don’t have long. The oblong, military Quell ships are hot on their trail. I’ve seen tons of these broadcasts. No one escapes the Outer Grid’s policing unit. If the Quell wants to arrest you, that’s it, you’re theirs. Makes me glad they police the Grid and not the city domes.

I cringe when the reel turns to a report on the Plex. Six idiotic bureaucrats sit in a white room around a white table to discuss legalizing nano drugs within their dome. So progressive. Orange Pipe, the tech giant, rolls its tangerine logo across the screen’s edge on repeat. It’s easy to see who the leaders of the Plex work for. They seem sympathetic on the vid, wrinkled brows and puppy eyes. But they only care about their appearance, not what they legalize. Not even if it’s the very thing that will crush their own citizens. The very thing to bring their dome to ruin. The very thing my parents died to—

I said hand over your cuff, low-grade, barks some girl beside me, tearing my attention from the screen. Don’t make me say it again.

Her raspy voice sets off warning bells. At first, I’m sure the threat is aimed at me. My from-a-box blue hair color can sometimes pass me off for a low-grade synth. But when a blonde girl with a short afro is shoved halfway up the wall near me, it’s easy to see who the synth with the chin-length metal hair replacements is harassing.

The cuff. Now! Metal Hair shoves her face inches from the blonde girl’s sniffing nose.

I . . . I can’t, the girl stutters. Her hands work to break the synth’s grip on her coat. The girl has a few visible upgrades, a wrist charger, and a GPS tracker. Nothing as serious as the synth with muscle enhancer wires sticking out of her bare arms. I hope Blondie wasn’t planning on hanging on to that cuff. You don’t understand, Blonde Girl goes on. I need to get home. My grandma, she—

Metal Hair shoves her again. Her blonde head smacks the station wall. Did I ask for a sob story? Type in your release code so I can get on that train.

I lean away, looking for a security guard. But I know even if I find one, they won’t do anything. They’re more concerned about mass panic over the bombing. One low-grade getting bullied by a synth isn’t worth bothering with.

The wall behind me pulsates when Metal Hair lands a punch against a screen by Blonde Girl’s head. I rub my cuff and tap my foot. I don’t want to do this. If I lose my spot on that train then it’s back to the Plex.

B-but she’s real sick, the girl pleads. If I don’t leave now, I might never see her again. Please, let me go. Metal Hair smacks Blondie across the mouth. Her plated finger upgrades slice skin on contact. Blood splatters across my hoodie—red dots on a mustard canvas. I can’t stay silent.

Leave her alone, I say, my voice low but audible. I hope my tone is enough to convince Metal Hair to back down. I know it isn’t. The synth takes her time sliding her maniacal glare from Blondie to me. Her purple-painted upper lip curls into a sneer. I straighten.

"Private conversation, Basic, she jeers. I guess I’m not as incognito as I’d hoped. Interrupt again, and you’re next."

When she turns to harass Blondie, I wiggle my finger under my cuff. Everything inside me screams to walk away. It’s not my problem. I’ve got a ticket out of here. I’m not blowing my one chance at freedom on some girl I don’t know. But I do it anyway.

You need on that train so badly? The words are out of my mouth before I realize it. Then here, take my ticket. I punch in my release code where she can see it, pull the silver cuff off, and jab it in her face. I try to hold my arm still, but I’m sure she can see it tremble. I’m not scared of a beating—wouldn’t want one, but I’ve taken my share of hits. No, I’m shaking because I can’t believe what I’m doing.

My face tenses, preparing to look like Blondie’s battered mug round two. But instead, Metal Hair’s sneer flips to a grin. She drops Blondie and snatches the cuff from me. See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Metal Hair saunters away as if nothing happened. She meets up with a group of synths near the subtrain rails, who must have watched the whole ordeal. They give her a high five before turning their backs on us. Creeps. Figures I’d run into a synth like that today. The one day I’ve got to get out of here or else I—I drop my head into my hands and pull at my hair.

What am I supposed to do now? I can’t go back there. Not now. Not ever.

My aunt and uncle will be here any minute, ready to drag me with them to that gutter city, thinking they can fix it. Like it’s our duty to somehow stop the place from crumbling in on itself? Well, they’re not taking me without a fight. Bloodied images of my past cloud my vision. Dad, Mom. Dead on the streets.

Thanks, a mousy voice says beside me. It means a lot and . . . well, thank you.

I lift my head to see Blondie wiping the blood from her mouth with a rag she pushes back into her pocket. I forgot she was there. Worry is still etched across her brow as she picks up her bags. Understandable since she’s now forced to share a subtrain with Metal Hair. I open my mouth to tell her not to worry about it when a deafening whoosh fills the station. The sleek subtrain blurs across the rails. Its segmented chrome body, etched in red lights and dressed from bottom to top with touch screen walls, slows to a stop with a hiss.

Your ride’s here, I say instead.

She nods, and I watch her squeeze through the crushing crowd, raise her wrist against the screen, and disappear into the train’s belly.

There are plenty of empty benches now that the station’s cleared out. I find the closest one and plop down. I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at the subtrain filled with passengers. Ten minutes? Half hour? But soon the subtrain leaves, and the massive screen above the railway bursts with cancelation notices. The only safe way out of here is gone.

There you are. Thought I’d missed you. A bubblegum, soprano voice startles me, and I look up. A girl with cotton-candy pink curls and blunt straight bangs flops her anime-covered duffel bag beside me. Out of breath, she bends over to gain control of her huffing. After sucking on an inhaler, her breathing relaxes. Her eyelids are smudged with matching pastel paint from brow to pink spider lashes. She’s dressed in the same oversized turquoise sweater and zebra tights I saw her in at last night’s school’s-out party. A party that must still be going on. At 5:15 in the morning.

Nope. Still here. I sigh.

Well, good, she says. The scent of black licorice taints her breath. She reaches into her bag to draw out another strand of the candy and tears off a chunk with her teeth. For a second, I thought you were going to do something dumb. Tell me that’s ketchup on your jacket.

I fling my blue hair over the yellow fabric to cover the bloodstain. You knew what I was doing when I messaged you, Tori, I say, changing the subject. Why else would you be here? If anyone can interpret l8r as I’m about to board a subtrain and skip town, it’s Tori.

Hey, you’re the one who went on and on about buying a one-way ticket out of here. I was hoping you were kidding. But you didn’t answer, so here I am, missing Anton’s party.

Missing what part? When the cops show up? You didn’t have to follow me, I say when she takes another bite.

"Oh, right, ’cause I’d be a great friend, hanging out at Anton’s while my best friend goes off risking her life." Her smacking chews muffle words spoken behind glossy black nails.

I bite back a laugh. Here I am, sitting in an empty substation getting harangued on responsibility by Tori, the girl who frequently parties till the crack of dawn.

A subtrain to Baton Rouge is hardly risking my life. I’m seventeen. Think I can handle living on my own.

Oh, really? she says. Do you even watch the news? There were three bombs in the past four months, Juna. All near substations. Can’t you just wait for them to at least catch these guys?

I rub the bridge of my nose. We’ve been over this so many times I’ve lost count. I’m beginning to think Tori doesn’t care about logic as much as she doesn’t want me to leave, period. Which is sweet, but what choice do I have? I’ve already tried hiding out in the city several times. My aunt and uncle found me in hours. I’m going. But where I go, I hope, is up to me.

Tori, they’re leaving soon, I remind her. "I don’t have time to wait for some Gridders who’ve only injured—what?—two people to be locked up. My aunt and uncle are determined to ship off to the Plex. The Plex. So, either I go with them, or I find a way to . . ."

My voice trails into nothing as what I said births an idea so dumb, I must be more desperate than I thought. Ship me off? Ship . . . I can’t believe I’m considering this. A trip through the Outer Grid? Might as well jump off the nearest high-rise. And yet, joining the shippers is a move my aunt and uncle won’t expect. Plus, I’d get a paycheck and a for-sure ticket out of town tonight. Exactly what I need. Assuming I survive the Grid.

Tori says something, but I only catch the tail end. And what does it matter? They only threatened to take you to the Plex for the summer. Maybe it’s changed since you were there, and maybe—

I’m not getting into this again, I say, interrupting her. I told you what happened in that cesspit. I’m not going back. I don’t want to spend ten minutes there, let alone a whole summer. Mind made up, I stand, throw my bag over my shoulder, and head for a map terminal.

Juna, wait, Juna!

I slow my pace. She’s going to follow me anyway. No sense in making it hard on her. The terminal is a waist-high black cube that was surrounded by people twenty minutes ago. Now, as it stands cold and empty, I wave my hand across its surface. It takes a second, but soon, a sea of colored lights flickers above its surface with a big blue dot inside South Austin’s subtrainstation flashing you are here. I type TARSH headquarters into the search bar. A red circle pops up far to the left—a good forty-minute walk from where I stand—and a blue line winds through the streets connecting the dots. I scan the area for a port station when Tori groans beside me.

TARSH? You can’t be serious.

I ignore her and dig through my bag. I think I have enough for a port in cash. Even if I do, it’ll be the last of my funds. I shouldn’t be spending it on anything. But I know a forty-minute walk will cost me more. I find the ragged gray wallet under a water canteen and shuffle through crisp bills.

Yeah, that’ll do it, I say and move to the porting dais I passed earlier, Tori trailing close behind. I reach the dais and hesitate. My aunt and uncle will worry. But I can’t—I can’t go back there. Besides, I’ll be gone for a couple of months at most. I’ll contact them once things relax and I’m out of the city. I type in my location on the prompter, insert the last of my cash, then step on one of the pads. The prompter dings to begin a ten-second countdown.

Tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing. Tori glares at me, arms crossed.

I’ll miss you, too, Tori, I say. You’re a good friend. Don’t worry. It’ll just be for the summer. I’ll be back before you know it. Promise.

Tori rolls her eyes and mutters to herself. Then, with a wave of her holo-cuff over the prompter, she pays for a port and stands on the pad beside me.

Don’t think you’re getting off that easy, she says. Before I open my mouth to argue, the port comes alive, swallowing us both up into probably the worst decision of my life.

2

WHITE LIGHT SPINS AROUND US, sizzling my skin and hazing my vision. Soon, the porting light fades from white to midnight. I blink to adjust my eyes from the port effect. When my sight returns, TARSH headquarters stares back at me, flashing a sign in red letters.

TEXAS AREA RURAL

SHIPPERS AND HAULERS

—CLOSED.

Closed? I cry out. It can’t be closed!

I’ve seen the ads, loads of them. This thing is supposed to be open twenty-four seven. Not closed on the one day I need it. This can’t be happening. And yet, the flashing sign on TARSH’s strange building is impossible to miss.

I’ve never seen a structure like the shipper’s headquarters. It’s only three stories high and sits between two thirty-story scrapers. More horizontal than vertical, the thing looks like a scraper fell over and someone cut doors on its side. No strips of neon or bright screens decorate the exterior walls. Painted black, only the closed sign and a speckle of lit windows brighten the surface. If not for the pink sliver of artificial sunrise outlining the frame, I’d mistake it for a dark gap between two towers.

All right, Master Escape Artist, Tori says beside me. Now what?

I take a second to think. If the lights are on, then somebody’s inside. I pull up my bag and step off the dais.

And . . . we’re breaking in, Tori says, and continues when I don’t answer. You know, I’m terrible at picking locks. But I’ll bet someone back at Anton’s knows how. We should go ask.

I crack a smile. If there’s one thing Tori is, it’s persistent. That’s why it was so easy to make friends with her a couple years back when I moved to South Austin. I still remember the determination in her mismatched eyes when she sat beside me in calculus. After the entire student body ostracized me for being a basic, only one person dared speak to me. Social status never did deter Tori’s friend-making skills. Instead of shunning me, she insisted we were best friends by the end of the day.

You can go to Anton’s if you want, Tori, I say. I’m not stopping you.

She spurts a humorless, Ha. We both know she’s not leaving my side.

We reach the Shipping headquarters’ front wall, and my spirits die. Not only is the place closed when it’s not supposed to be, but there isn’t even a front door. I run my hands over a metallic beveled surface and search for an entrance. As far as I can see, there’s no lit-up frame, no sliding glass, not even a crack in the wall. How anyone gets inside this place is beyond me.

So, you’re going to punch the wall and crawl in? Tori asks from beside me.

I give her a look of exasperation then sidestep her. There’s got to be a door here somewhere. I move down the length of the building, running my hands over its surface till I find a good place to knock.

Welcome to the Texas Area’s Rural Shippers and Haulers’ Austin Branch, a female voice blares from above, almost giving me a heart attack. The same crusty woman from the ads appears on a screen to my left several feet up. I must have mistaken the screen for part of the metal wall—black blending into black. But there she is, the woman I’d seen so many times, pixie-cut white hair, vomit-green suit and all. She may have said welcome through her strong southern drawl, but her tight, lined mouth and sharp, squinted eyes say anything but. At first, I think she’s a recording. But then she lifts her chin and lowers her gaze to meet mine.

I look to Tori, unsure what to say.

Arms crossed and leaning against the wall, she juts out her hand for me to get this over with.

I suck in a breath. I’m here for the job. I heard you need new shippers and thought—

If you’ve come to our hub to join our company—the woman no longer looks at me—I regret to inform you our representatives are currently working on a supply trip. We cannot take any applicants at this time.

My shoulders sag. A crummy recording.

Tori tugs on my jacket. Sorry, Juna. Can’t say you didn’t try. She tugs again. Let’s get out of here.

My failure threads its way from my head to my heart. We move away from the wall to the sidewalk and then toward sparkling lights and my one-way ticket back home. I can’t ignore thoughts of the Plex. Visions of streets blanketed in thick rain, walls collapsing, and snarling faces. I can’t go back.

I take one final glance at the shipper station when the torso of a man appears on-screen behind the woman. I slow. The man bends till his face shows. He’s younger than I guessed—a year or two older than me max. He clenches his teeth, showing off a jawline sharper than most city skylines. Dark stubble on his jaw. The rest of his deep bronze skin is smooth and flawless. His wavy black hair spills over a pair of chrome shades as he whispers in the woman’s ear. When he’s finished, he tilts his chin to nod at me.

You! You, there! calls the woman in the suit.

My body jerks at her voice and I slow.

The woman flies from her seat. Stop! Don’t go anywhere. We’ll be right out. The screen disappears in an imploding circle of black.

Tori joins me when I stop. What in the— she says, more to herself than me. That lady was really there?

I open my mouth to reply when a sickening crunch of metal has me throwing my hands over my ears instead. Both Tori and I hunch over till the piercing sound dies. When I straighten, a burst of hot air shoots beneath a door wide enough for two subtrains to fit through. No wonder I couldn’t find the entrance. It’s the size of half a city block. The gust sends blue hair into my mouth and eyes. As I struggle to get the mess behind my ears, my heart skips a beat. The grating sound finally stops altogether, and I free my face from the tangled strands.

What I see slackens my jaw. The door sits open as high as my shoulders. Under both sides, beefy men in charcoal uniforms grip chains attached to the door’s frame. They tilt their massive bodies back till they reach a forty-five-degree angle. Their exposed arms slicken with sweat while they tie off the chains onto hooks on the door they opened.

Manually.

My mind rattles. It’s not automatic. Everything’s automatic. How can they not have an automatic door? City maintenance would have fixed a broken door long before it got bad enough to make that awful sound. Yet, somehow, these shippers are using a manual front