New Seattle disliked the Black Cirkus. They remembered them as the violent gang of thugs and thieves who’d taken over the city in the days just after the mega-quake. But Dorothy knew they could be so much more and so, several months ago, she’d told Roman her plan.
“Let’s speak to the people directly. We can have a . . . a broadcast.” She’d stumbled over the word broadcast, which she’d only just learned. “The people in this city don’t realize what’s being kept from them. They don’t know that time travel is still possible. Let me bring them to our side.”
They’d built a makeshift studio in the corner of the Fairmont basement, with real cameras and spotlights, which Dorothy and Roman had stolen from a defunct television station in 2044, and a backdrop made from a tattered American flag that Roman had insisted made them look like rebels.
Dorothy, naive, had thought the campaign would be easy. Just go on television (another new word!) and tell the people what they could do. But, of course, it was much more complicated than that. Distrust of the Cirkus ran deep. It had taken over two hundred broadcasts—one every single night—and the better part of a year to plant the seeds. Now, though. Now, they were close.
Dorothy took her place before the flag. The sudden glare of the spotlights made her squint, but no one would see her eyes beneath the hood that hid her face. Roman stood behind the equipment, all in shadow, and she heard the telltale sound of buttons flipping and dials turning as he worked the switchboard.
“Three . . . ,” said Roman, his voice cutting through the oppressive spotlights.
Dorothy took a deep breath.
“. . . two . . .”
Here we go.
Roman held up a single finger, and then, after a beat, he pointed at her.
Go.
“Friends,” Dorothy said, her heart beating hard and fast in her throat. “Do not attempt to adjust your television. Our broadcast has taken over every channel.”
6
Ash
Ash usually avoided wandering around New Seattle at night. It was far too likely that he’d run into someone unsavory; a Cirkus Freak searching for an easy mark, or some jerk who recognized Ash from the days before the mega-quake and wanted to start a fight. The city was only safe for those who had the cash to pay off the thieves and lowlifes who prowled the docks after dark. Ash didn’t have that kind of money, and, even if he did, he had far too much pride to pay for his own safety.
Besides, tonight was different. Tonight, he felt hyperalive and also, strangely, like he was caught in a dream he couldn’t wake up from. He practically salivated at the thought of throwing a punch, of feeling his knuckles connect with something hard and warm.
But there was no one around to fight with him. His skin tingled, uselessly.
He made his way to the end of the dock, stopping where it forked. One path led deeper into the dark water, bordered by ghostly white trees and mossy rooftops, while the other twisted toward the city. The buildings weren’t lit up—the only electricity downtown was used to power televisions for the nightly broadcast—but Ash could make out the shape of them against the black sky.
He almost felt like laughing. It couldn’t be any clearer than this: there was a good path and a bad path. He could turn right and wander around in the dark for half an hour, cool down before, eventually, making his way back to Dante’s, where his friends would be on their second drink.
Or he could turn left and head downtown, where the Cirkus Freaks and the people who paid them off partied.
He heard the distant call of voices. It stoked his anger, the knowledge that there were some people in this town who could still walk around at night without being afraid.
Seven days, he thought.
Out loud, he muttered, “What the hell?”
Left. Definitely left.
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and lowered his head against the hammering wind. It was cold for November in the Pacific Northwest, but he found himself relishing the chill. It was a welcome respite from the burning inside him.
The voices grew louder as the buildings got closer together. A crowd of kids in nice coats stumbled out of a bar.
“No, that one,” one of them was saying, his voice rising in exasperation. “She was looking at you, didn’t you see?”