“I’ll never do it.”

“Why not?”

“Mom won’t let me,” replied Connor meekly.

“Boy, you are a real pussy!” said Joshua, slugging Connor on the arm. “First you chicken out on that fight with Mark, now you admit your mom is the boss? Pfft!”

Connor fumed silently as the larger South African put his arm around him and shook him. He was much smaller than his friend, heck, he was smaller than almost everyone. A guy like Mark — a six-foot-something football jock that could bench-press two Connors simultaneously — could knock him into next week. Connor wasn’t a coward, he was smart not to fight. Right?

Henk stepped closer to the poster, tapping his finger on the heroically posturing infantryman, staring off into the distance, rifle resting on his muscled shoulder. “What’s wrong with this? Is your mother a commie sympathiser?” asked the Dutch boy.

“Mom is no closet Red.” snapped Connor. “She served her time on the front. Did either of yours?”

Joshua and Henk looked at each other. Connor winced. Both had lost family. Joshua shook his head, mumbling something in Afrikaans.

“They are doing a good thing, you Americans,” said Henk, trying to move the conversation along. “My family would like to return one day. We want to rebuild and reclaim, as much as anyone else.”

“Just think, you could go to Holland and watch Henk build his house all crooked,” laughed Joshua. “Big gun and smart uniform… You’d get all those Dutch girls left behind. Just offer them some rations and a bar of chocolate!”

“You shut up!” said Henk, feigning indignation.

Connor sighed, fantasies playing in his mind briefly. “It’s a tad desperate to join the military just to get a date.”

“Better than dying a virgin,” cackled Joshua, nudging Connor.

“Dude, shut up…” said Connor looking up and down the crowed hallway to see if anyone was listening in on their conversation - his fellow Boise Central classmates walked by in animated conversation, uninterested in what he and his friends were up to. A younger girl nearby gave him a strange look but it may just have been a reaction to his own wide eyed expression. His secret was safe for now.

“They’re still rolling out the Mark 3’s, boy,” said Joshua, slapping Connor on the back. “Imagine your scrawny ass all buff and shit… You’d get all the girls… or boys if that’s your thing.”

“Yeah,” agreed Henk. “Those dudes are massive killing machines. No body fucks with a Pro and lives.”

“My dad was a Pro-Human,” said Connor. “I’ve seen the photos of him next to mom.”

“Gee, the apple fell far from the tree, didn’t it?” smirked Henk.

Connor ground his teeth and flipped his friend off. The truth hurt. His dad had been a towering hulk of a man, according to the few photos he had. Connor was all skin and bones, as uncoordinated as he was unfit. Even if he wanted to join the army he would need to fluke the fitness test.

He heard dozens of different accents as they threaded their way to the exit. British, Irish, Spanish, African, French, Indian — they were all here in little old Idaho and more. The refugees had helped fill the vacant cities and towns in post-war America, taking the jobs the locals didn’t want to do or sometimes couldn’t. Places like Boise were cultural melting pots — heartland cities that had been forgotten and passed over for generations were suddenly a hot destination for foreigners. It created tensions with the locals, yes. But it also breathed life into a dying and empty countryside which had given so many citizens to the war.

It felt kind of weird that most of his friends were foreign. It was just a fact of life in an American city to be a minority if you were born there. That wasn’t the case in the suburbs. Those that stayed or survived, fled to the safety of the quieter neighbourhoods. Suburban black, white, Latino and Asian Americans kept together. The communities they lived in were almost exclusively American. It was the new class divide — Old American versus New American. The politicians and state media claimed it wasn’t true. All it took was a look at the difference in funding between the two. The suburbs had better roads, better services and better schools. The city was packed to capacity, running on infrastructure that was decades old. The one thing they did have in the city was better food. The suburbs had burger joints — they had every cuisine you could imagine. The cultural melting pot had obvious benefits when it came to culinary inspiration.

Many of these refugees wanted to return to their homelands. The joint effort to clean up and rebuild was a slow process however, and American businesses and military were relied on for all the heavy lifting. For some countries, such as England, it was impossible, the nuclear contamination too extreme for rehabilitation in this generation or even the next. America had her own wounds too. The East coast had almost been wiped from the map and the desolation wrought through Alaska had left it a wasteland.

Kids like Connor had few options at their disposal in terms of higher education. Hope like hell you won the college lottery or join the military. If you didn’t have the right connections, a mundane, low wage job disassembling wartime scrap was probably on your horizon. Connor’s family didn’t have a lot of money and his grades weren’t scholarship material. Realistically, that left the armed services — an option he would avoid given the choice. His parents were both veterans — his mother a medic, his absent father a soldier. Denise never talked fondly of the war. She painted a picture that was bleak and terrifying. There was no mystique or glory in her infrequent tales. Connor knew she had seen terrible things. He doubted he could muster the courage to do half of what she had described.

Connor spotted the muscled form of Mark and his cronies hanging out by the front doors. Connor winced and bowed his head, concentrating on watching his feet. Somebody clucked like a chicken as he walked by. He felt a spike of anger — tempered with the knowledge of his own impotence should anything occur.

“There’s the pussy,” said Mark, pointing out Connor to any who would listen. “Where are you douches off to? Going to fondle each other behind the nearest alley?”

Mark’s friends laughed. The crowd seemed to dissipate around Connor, Joshua and Henk as they sensed the impending violence. Some watched eagerly from the fringes, cameras ready. Connor kept his eyes down, away from anyone who might be looking at him. He wanted to do something. To say something witty and cutting. He froze instead.

“No. We’re going to take turns fondling your mom,” said Joshua casually.

Mark stepped forward, face red and fists clenched.

“Do you want to join us?” asked Henk. “There’s plenty of her to go around.”

“I’ll fuck the three of you assholes up,” snarled Mark. His posse edged closer, creating a solid wall of jock.

Joshua started swearing in Afrikaans, something he usually did when angry. Mark and his crew seemed ready to jump.

Connor really didn’t want to get punched. He grabbed Joshua and Henk and pulled them away. “Come on. You don’t want to hurt these guys,” he babbled, voice breaking. He pulled them through the leering crowd blocking the door before anything further could happen. Mark yelled insults. Others called him a chicken. He could barely hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat.

Joshua and Henk pulled themselves free from Connor’s grasp. They emerged through the open double doors into the wane sunlight of an autumn afternoon. Tall res-towers ringed the skyline, the soft grey of their concrete and dirty windows almost blending in but for the glaring LED screens at their peaks that acted as both adverting and warnings lights for straying gyros. A handful of teachers and students fought against the current, early for the evening program. His school was open twenty-four-seven, running three different streams of classes in one day. It was extreme but necessary for many urban schools to cope with the high influx of students.

Joshua shook his head, clearly angry at Connor and what had just gone down. “The fuck was that?”

“Mark being a dickhead. Nothing new,” replied Connor.

“You chickened out again! With us!” said Henk.

“We could have done something!” agreed Joshua.

Connor breathed deeply, thinking. “They would have ruined us. There was way more of them…”

“It’s better than looking like cowards in front of half the school, bro,” said Henk.

Connor looked at the ground. “Fuck! Sorry! Next time I’ll let my ass get beaten.”

“God… I need to take my mind off this bullshit,” said Joshua, craning his neck to the sky. “You guys want to cut loose?”

Henk shrugged. “As long as I’m home by eight. My aunt freaks out if I’m not home an hour before curfew.”

“V.R death-match?” suggested Connor.

“Boring,” sighed Joshua. “We can do that at home anytime.”

“Whatever… You’re just scared of another ass kicking,” replied Connor.

Joshua looked at him askance, nodding his head thoughtfully. “Oh, I’m afraid of an ass kicking?”

“Are you forgetting what just happened?” asked Henk, pointing back towards Mark.

Connor glowered at Joshua, his argument dying on his tongue. He knew he had nothing concrete to come back with, just hollow boasts.

‘Thought so…” said Joshua.

“Fuck you,” snapped Connor.

“That’s better!”

Henk held up a hand to silence them. “Hey, shut up! I’ve got a message from this girl I know. She wants to hang out.” He was staring straight ahead, his eyes reading messages on his expensive E-Contact lenses. “We should all go. She probably has friends and gear. She’s a real party animal.”

Joshua rubbed his hands together. “Now that is a plan I can get behind. Where are we going?”

“…She’s at Fort Boise Park…” said Henk, concentrating on the text in front of him.

“That’s a little… shady,” said Connor, trying not to sound scared.

Joshua chuckled. “Of course you would say that.”

“It’s only a short gyro away,” said Henk. “I can shout you a ride.”

“What about ‘IG 6’ or ‘The Reyes’?” asked Connor, naming the only two gangs he knew of.

“They don’t come out during the day. Often…” said Joshua, slapping Connor on the back. “You’ve got to get over your fear of talking to girls, man.”

Connor shook his head. “It’s not that. I’m fine talking to anybody.”

“It’s done. Gyro is coming,” said Henk. “We’ve got five hours until curfew and no school tomorrow. I plan on making the most of it.”

Henk pushed his way through the crowd, making for the nearest taxi platform. Joshua motioned for Connor to go. Connor sighed and followed. Punk and Rock ‘n Roll were making a come-back after a decade long hiatus. Connor saw a few groups of kids dressed in the style, their dark leather and denim popular again. They stood in contrast to the brightly coloured vinyl and synthetic craze that a good portion of the school still wore. Connor was still rocking thrift shop finds and military surplus.

Joshua caught up with Henk, sliding a long arm around his shoulder. “So who is this girl, my friend?”

“I met her last week at Sweat Junction. You two were busy working, if I recall. We danced all night, amongst other things…”

Connor felt a stab of jealousy. Henk always seemed to glide through life without any effort. Girls and parties were the top of his priorities. He seemed to find his way into both of them every alternate day.

Joshua scratched his chin. “How’d you get around the curfew?”

“My aunt was working that night. I stayed in the club until the morning. The bouncer didn’t even check my fake I.D,” laughed the Dutch boy, leading the way up the ramp to the gyro stand. A bright yellow gyro descended from the sky onto the waiting platform, the current from the multi-fans tussling the boy’s hair. Henk opened the sliding door, gesturing for his friends to enter. Joshua climbed in eagerly. Connor hesitated for a second.

“Come on, Hill,” smiled Henk. “It will be fun, I promise.”

Connor nodded and slipped inside. Henk got in and closed the door.

The gyro’s interior had two double seats facing each other, just big enough to fit four people. It smelled of body odour and cigarettes but it was clean.

“Where are you gentlemen heading to,” chimed the A.I pilot.

“Fort Boise Park,” said Henk.

“Right away,” replied the A.I.

The cab’s fans accelerated, their roar increasing until the artificial baffles kicked in, cancelling the noise. It lurched into the air, ascending to the correct altitude and joining the public air-lane. Joshua leaned forward, hands on his knees. “You said she had friends. Are they pretty?”

‘We will see, buddy,” replied Henk, sitting back with a big know-all smile on his face.

Connor stared out the window as the others talked about girls, parties and mind altering substances. It was a common topic. Connor couldn’t relate to them on many levels as alcohol and drugs did nothing for him. Try as he might, drinking, smoking or snorting had no effect. He was awkward enough as it was without being able to cut loose and imbibe some artificial courage. Nobody had noticed it yet, as Connor always found a way to leave the party early, before anyone could see him stone sober. He assumed he just had a good metabolism.

Skyscrapers both old and new filed past, gyros hovering around their lofty peaks like honey bees. The tall buildings stopped by the river’s edge. Ahead were the tenement buildings built post-war to house the influx of refugees. It was a rougher neighbourhood, sure, but it had its benefits. The best food halls and dance clubs were found in these darker, more confined streets, products of the mixed and varied cultures that inhabited them. Drug use and violent crime were higher here, orchestrated by a number of youth gangs. Many of the groups were real or imagined imports from overseas. They clashed with each other and the stronger local gangs, who had a head-start and better contacts. The curfew was largely in place to target those crews which used hordes of unemployed youths. In the gangs they had the prospect of making good money and the offer of brotherhood and safety. It was little wonder there were so many kids playing gangster.

The park where they were heading was in the centre of this tenement zone. It had been hotly contested by the various mobs. The wars had ended in a stalemate, making it an unofficial neutral area to meet and trade. The skate park was usually crowded with bored youths looking for cheap entertainment. Low level drug dealers often plied their wares amongst the visitors — nothing serious enough to get the attention of the cops or gangs. He hadn’t heard of any serious injuries here lately. There was always a first though…

The gyro started to drop.

“Are you listening Connor?” asked Joshua.

“Hmm?”

“Henk was saying this girl is into some freaky shit. You’re not going to pussy out are you?” said Joshua, gripping Connor on the shoulder. “Don’t make us look like fools, right, Hill?”

Connor cast a glance at the hand on his should then back at Joshua. “Does it matter?”

“People talk,” explained his friend. “If you look bad, we look bad by association. Don’t make us look bad. I haven’t been laid in weeks.”

They measured each other up over a long stare. The chime of the A.I broke the silence.

“We have arrived at your destination.”

The gyro rocked as it set down on a raised landing pad overlooking the park. Henk raised his hand to the watching scanner.

“How much?”

“Twenty-four dollars U.S, please.”

“Ok,” he said, revealing an R.F bracelet.

The A.I scanned the Henk’s bracelet. “Your transaction has been processed. Have a good day, gentlemen.”

“Follow my lead, ‘gentlemen’,” said Henk smiling.