Athel Read Online Free PDF

gripe. “War is a time of hardship, not lighthearted
frolicking.”
    “Isn’t
that the point? To be lighthearted and merry and forget all the hardship?” He
swirls the jug in his hands and looks down, lowering his voice. “It’s not easy,
anyway. To forget, I mean.”
    No, it’s
not. We’ve lost our fathers and the wound is still too fresh to heal.
    I watch
adults and children ring around the fire and wonder what Metal Jaw has up his
sleeve. People skip, sing, and clap their hands. The tunes get faster, the
rhythm fiercer, the dancers more intoxicated. I frown at such waste of energy.
    “All this
is distracting us from our purpose,” I reply. “We need to get fit and build
weapons. We need to check batteries and make sure that all our prostheses are
up and running at their best. It’s what our fathers would’ve done.”
    “It’ll get
done, in due time.” He sends me a sideways glance and then nudges me. “Come on.
Cheer up, dude. You’re still beating yourself up over that droid.” He brings
the jug to his lips again, his gaze straying back to the fire and the people
gathered around it. “We were so close! We just got unlucky. Next time we’ll
succeed.”
    I sigh.
“The droid had come out of the gorge. Alone .
It was our one chance and we blew it.”
    The last
tune fades away. The fiddlers set down their instruments amidst cheering and
clapping. Lukas wipes his brow and draws in sharp intakes of air. He gets a
real workout whenever he plays at these events.
    The fiddlers
step away from the bonfire, and Tahari comes forward. Everyone falls silent.
    Tahari is
a small man with a round face and black hair streaked with white. His wide
forehead is pearled with sweat, his eyes marked by long lines of worry. He
stands in the clearing around the bonfire with a jug of Beiji in his hand and
looks around him, nodding.
    “Brothers
and sisters,” he begins, as he always does. “We’re reunited here tonight to
celebrate life.” He points to the three sets of parents whose babies just
turned one. “We’re celebrating at a time of hardship, at a time when we’ve been
called to stand up for the future of our children.”
    “Death to
the Gaijins!” somebody screams from the crowd.
    “Yeah,”
another chimes in. “When are we going to make them hear our voice?”
    Tahari
raises an open palm. “Patience, my friends.” He points to the Tower, our home
for the past forty years. The walls are cracked, the windowpanes missing. One
wing of the sixtieth floor was completely destroyed during the 2189 attack that
killed a third of our people. Many lost limbs, eyes, and dear ones.
    “Look at
us,” Tahari says. “Look at where we live, what we do to survive. We’re
vulnerable. The Tower is such an easy target for the Gaijins’ rockets. As of
now, we stand no chance against them.”
    The
comment triggers an uproar of protests. Wes and I jump to our feet and join the
chorus of boos. With a sweep of his wide hands, Tahari silences us all. A tall
man steps up from behind him, chin raised and feet spread apart in a military
stance. He opens up his blazer and hooks his thumbs in his belt loops. He
sports state-of-the-art pneumatic leg prostheses that look too cool to be
hidden in long pants. Instead, he wears his pants’ legs tucked inside the
suctioning cups wrapped around his thighs. The outer shells of the prostheses
are transparent, and sleek piezoelectric actuators glisten inside, around the
steel tibias and kneecaps.  
    “That’s
Hennessy,” Wes whispers in my ear.
    “I know
who he is,” I reply. Who doesn’t ?
    “I wish
he’d be less snobbish about his robotic legs.”
    “Your legs
are way cooler, Wes.”
    He nods
but doesn’t look convinced.
    Tahari
acknowledges Hennessy’s presence with a nod and then speaks again. “My friends,
you all know the challenges we’re facing and why our Kiva Council has set forth
a quest for the best, strongest, and most reliable weapon we can make.”
    “We lack
the