The Summer Prince by Alaya Dawn Johnson Read Free Book Online

shirt. Auntie Yaha would faint if she knew what I was about to do. I can barely breathe through my joy.
    The pod lets us out a few terraces beneath Carioca Plaza — the hub of the verde that on good days has the most vibrant street fair in the city, though now it’s mostly deserted.
    The wind starts in earnest as we walk out of the pod, and I grip the woman’s arm to keep her from falling.
    “You have a place to go?” she yells, fighting with the wind.
    I just nod, try to look reassuring. She opens her mouth to say something and then shrugs and hurries off. I watch her until she disappears into the warren of passages within the concrete. The waves aren’t too high yet. I hope she’ll be safe.
    As if in warning, the wind punches past me and I hit the railing hard enough to knock my breath away. I gasp for a frightening moment before my lungs start to work again. I curse and pull on my gloves with shaking hands. The stickiness of the nanohooks steadies me. I don’t activate them in my shoes just yet — you can walk with them on, but it’s exhausting, and I don’t think the weather’s turned bad enough.
    The sun must have risen by now, but you’d hardly know it. It’s so dark I almost wish I’d brought a light. But lights make it easier for other people to see you too. People like the Palmares guards. There aren’t normally many officers or bots down in the verde (battles with local gangs are bad for publicity), but I know that there will be more than usual in anticipation of Enki’s coronation tour. Another thing I know: Cameras like the verde hasn’t seen in a hundred years will be gathering in Carioca Plaza this evening, where the Queen’s own pod will deign to travel, if it can brave the stink. And she and Enki will process to the outside, to the terraces lined with the algae vats and that breathtaking view of the bay. And to get a better picture, the cameras will of course flit over the water to capture the Queen and her new summer king, overlooking the waters of their great city.
    The cameras will expect to capture the startlingly beautiful effect of the setting sun lighting up the algae vats like jewels. After all, you can’t smell the catinga on a holo. They will expect Enki to smile and play nice to make up for his gross breach of etiquette at the coronation party.
    They will not get what they expect.

    Between the waves and the rain, I’m soaked by the time I make it to the northern bayside of the terraces. The wind is stronger here and the sky has lost even a hint of the sun. On balance, I’m glad — no one will be out here this morning. They’d be crazy to brave it.
    I’ve given up and turned on the nanohooks in my shoes. Each step requires a laborious yank in precisely the right direction before they’ll let go, but it’s better than letting a wave carry me into the bay.
    I feel for my spray paint beneath my vest, reassure myself that it’s secure, and then pull on my face mask. In case there are cameras flitting around that haven’t drowned yet, I don’t want them able to identify me. Better to be another masked grafiteiro, probably from one of the gangs, than recognized as June Costa, stepdaughter of an Auntie.I might live for the moments when I can frustrate and annoy Auntie Yaha, but even I don’t know what she would do if I pushed her that far. Better to be anonymous. Given what happened at the coronation party, I’m not in the mood for public performance.
    “Here goes,” I mutter after checking for the fifth time that the nanohooks in my gloves are working. I wait for a lull in the waves, climb to the top of the railing, and launch myself as high as I can jump.
    I swing my knees to my chest so I’m bent double, hanging by my hands and one foot from an algae vat. Inside, the microscopic, living bits of green swish around, releasing a stink I can smell despite the wind. I press my other foot into the side and wait for that reassuring, subtle snap as the nanohooks engage. And