Blood Zero Sky by J. Gates

wandered to me. “Who’s that?” he asks, pointing in my direction.
    “I’m May.”
    “This is my son, Michel,” McCann says, introducing the boy.
    “She’s a Blackie, Michel,” Clair says, making no effort to disguise the disdain in her voice. “I bet you’ve never seen one of those before.”
    Michel squints at me and wrinkles his little nose.
    “A Blackie?” he says. “But she’s so . . . white!”
    Ethan and McCann laugh loudly. Even Clair lets a smile slip.
    “No, no,” McCann corrects, still grinning. “It means she’s her own person, not owned by the Company. It means she’s not in the red. She has no debt. ”
    “Well, I’m not quite a Blackie yet,” I murmur. I don’t tell them the rest, that I’m only about five years and a few million dollars away.
    Little Michel still seems perplexed. “What’s debt?” he asks.
    “Don’t worry,” Clair says, giving me a pointed glare. “When we’re finished, all the debts will be settled.” Her eyes linger on me for a moment longer, then she turns and makes her way across the room through a maze of blanketed bodies.
    “Don’t mind her,” McCann tells me. “She’s an angry person. Sometimes I think after she’s done fighting the Company, she’s going to declare war on everyone else. Don’t worry, she’ll be back by the time dinner is served.”
    McCann laughs and Michel does, too, but Ethan just watches me.
    From another direction, a kind-faced, middle-aged woman with large hips and squinty eyes approaches, wiping her hands on an apron. She smiles, but shakes her head with disapproval.
    “You’ve been fighting again,” she says.
    “Yes, ma’am,” Ethan says with a smile. “How are you, Ada?”
    Ada shrugs the question away, as if it is of no importance. “Dinner’s ready,” she says. “You all must be starving.”
    ~~~
    In the middle of the massive warehouse, Clair, Ethan, McCann, Michel, and I all sit around the fire burning in the cut-off bottom of a steel drum. We eat sandwiches of wheat bread, dried beef, and mustard—silently.
    Mostly I stare into the fire, but when I look up at the others, I sometimes catch them exchanging glances. The tension is almost palpable. Other times, they gaze at their sandwiches as a gypsy would at tea leaves. I wonder if it’s my fate they’re looking for, or their own. Sometimes, one of them pretends to look past me, but I know they’re actually checking me out, sizing me up. Maybe they’re just trying to discern the differences between themselves and me, the only Blackie-to-be they’ve probably ever seen.
    My mind is a tangle of confused, fearful thoughts. It’s good that they’re feeding me. It might mean that they aren’t planning to kill me right away. Unless, of course, this is to be my last meal. If it is, I’d have preferred Italian. . . . I should escape, but I have no idea where I am, and I’m surrounded by people with guns. If only I could contact someone. . . . I manage to glance at my IC, but it shows that there’s no wireless here. Either we’re out of satellite range, or they’ve blocked the signal somehow. I have no options. I’m powerless. All I can do is enjoy my sandwich, try to ignore my throbbing head, and hope that if they kill me, they’ll do it quickly.
    It’s McCann who finally breaks the silence: “I like having the fire,” he says, and the music of his African accent brings a smile to my face. “A man needs a fire.”
    “Yep,” his son, Michel, agrees.
    Clair snorts. “Enjoy it now. When the next-generation sats are up, they’ll be able to detect the heat even inside the building. If we want a fire then, it’ll have to be in the deep underground.”
    “N-Corp doesn’t have any satellite programs like that in development,” I say around the last bite of my sandwich. “I would know about it.”
    McCann trumpets a laugh. Clair looks at me dismissively, and then back at Ethan.
    Just then, a broad-shouldered, ruddy-cheeked young man approaches.