“One unbroken bottle of mezcal, for all the good it’ll do us.” I pried it out of the sand anyway and slipped it in my pack. I squinted into the dim shuttle. “How ’bout you?”
“Nothing here either.” Though I swore he slipped something into his pocket. Still, it wasn’t anything to eat or drink, since that would be useless to him while he was wearing his suit. Past that, I didn’t care. “At least the frame’s still worth salvaging for scrap.”
As I followed him back outside, I heard the static of his intercom. “Let’s see if they can get a reading on me now.”
“Ad Astra, come in. This is Edison. Come in.” More static. “Let’s try from the top of the dune.”
We climbed up and tried again. There was a hiss, and then: “We have a fix on your location, Edison. Jenner will be glad to hear you’re alive. He’s livid you didn’t come back with the magfly and wants a full report.”
“At least he can’t kill me till I get back.” Edison grinned, and though I heard the undercurrent of tension, the man at the other end laughed. “Tell him I’ve found something interesting. We’re heading to the Exchange now. Send a magfly to meet us.”
“Us?” the voice asked.
“Just do as I say.”
“Us?” I echoed the Curador’s question when Edison was done with the transmission.
“Only if you want to.” And the tentative expression looked strange on his face. “The radio is still out there, some exile has it right now, and soon enough, they’ll bring it to an Exchange. And then we’ll have it. And you’ll have your Earth.”
But for me, finding Earth meant finding a way home to my sisters. Edison guessed at my hesitation. “This may not be how you expected salvation to look. But the truth is, your best chance of finding the radio is with the Curadores.” Then he was the one who hesitated. “With me.”
Edison was right, this wasn’t anything like I thought it would look. And I wondered if he really understood what he was asking of me. If I became Edison’s Kisaeng, it would sever any remaining threads that tied me to my people. Even if we found the radio, even if I managed to make contact with Earth again, would the Abuelos accept a savior who’d betrayed her people twice?
“I’m sorry, Leica. If I could make it possible for you to go home, I would. But you know Curadores have no say in Citizen law. All I can do is offer you a way out of Tierra Muerta.”
And like a reminder of the ugly realities of this place, a large group of exiles slipped into view—crossing the lowlands at the bottom of the dune. I pulled Edison down into the sand, simultaneously weighing and discarding all of our escape routes. We couldn’t hide; we were too far from last night’s ruins. And we’d never outrun them.
“Maybe they haven’t seen us.” But even as I said it, I knew it was unlikely. We’d been standing on the ridge of the dune, Edison’s suit glaring white against sand and sky. Still crouching, I put my hand on the knife in my belt. Not wanting to draw it. Not yet.
“They’re hauling something big,” Edison said.
He was right. The men were headed southeast, moving in two lines across the sand with a deliberate, steady rhythm—neither clumped together nor spread too thin. In the center, protected by the others, a group of five hauled a slideboard piled high with salvage catching the sun.
“The shuttle!” Edison exhaled the words. “They’re the ones who gutted the shuttle.”
It was possible––the crew would’ve gotten caught in the sandstorm, just like us. They would’ve had to hunker down and wait it out in whatever shelter they could find or make.
“How can you tell?” Their Find was definitely metal. But it could be anything.
“I can see the radio components.”
I squinted at the slideboard, but it just looked like a mass of scrap to me. Could he possibly see that far? Then I thought of his enormous leap last night in the storm . . . what else was he able to do?
I was willing to believe him. I wanted him to be right. After all, what was my other choice? Follow Edison into the Dome, become his Kisaeng, and what? Wait around and hope the radio showed up? No. My people had turned their backs on me, but that didn’t mean I had to turn my backs on them.
It was like Edison said: Some exile has the radio, and soon enough, they’ll bring it to an Exchange. And we’ll have it. And you’ll have your Earth.
I stood up.
“What are you doing?” Edison was alarmed, but I didn’t answer as I headed down the dune.
He followed me, like I knew he would. “I’m doing exactly what you said. They want to trade it for supplies, right? I’m just skipping the waiting part.” We skidded down the slope, sand billowing up behind us. “We’ll promise them a huge Gratitude, escort the crew to the Exchange, and reclaim the radio.”
“And if they refuse?” Edison said, his voice strained.
“Wait—why would they refuse?” I stopped and looked at him, not understanding his hesitation. Crews fought each other over Finds, but never Curadores. Why else would they salvage the radio if not to bring it to the Exchange?
“Well, some of the exiles have been less . . . friendly toward us lately,” Edison said.
The crew had altered its direction to intersect with us and now we could see that this was no straggling mess of exiles. Aside from the double lines protecting their Find, another three men took the lead—walking in a V—and three men kept watch in the back. There was something disturbingly familiar about their neat formations.
“Meaning?” I asked.
“Meaning that there have been incidents.” I glared at his vagueness and Edison gave in. “There’s been attacks on the Exchanges.”
I didn’t understand. Exiles looting supplies? But it was too late to do anything with the information anyway—the crew was practically on top of us now.
Edison stepped forward. “Hello, friends!” The words boomed from his speakers. Commanding, but friendly.
“Hello . . . friend.” A man with a greying, neatly-trimmed beard and a bandaged side stepped to the front of the group. He gave a deferential tilt of his head but there was no respect there, and his gravelly voice was cut with bitterness.
He was the man who’d grabbed me in the smoke. His face was narrow and reserved. And there were the same eyes, calm and cunning. A chill went through me.
He was clearly the crewboss; all it took was a tiny nod, and his men—twenty-five or so of them—spread out in a circle around us. They were stone-faced and silent in their movements. Everyone out in Tierra Muerta was a criminal, and it didn’t take long for the desert to teach you its savageness. But this group had a cohesion I’d never seen among the makeshift bands of exiles. It was daunting.
At least Edison had been right about the salvage. The slideboard was piled with circuit boards, wires, and panels from the shuttle. Edison said, “I see you’ve got some good Finds.”
“Yes, the storms certainty uncovered some treasures. But these aren’t for trade,” the crewboss said. His words were relaxed, but careful. And he blinked at us slowly, as if everything about him was deliberate.
I didn’t understand what was going on. What good would this junk be to exiles, if not to trade for food and water?
Edison didn’t let his broad smile falter. “I can give you a handsome Gratitude for them.”
“We don’t need your Gratitude. We grow what we want. Or take it.” His voice was cold, almost amused. He nodded to his crew.
As if they’d been waiting for the signal, three men stepped forward—the ones who’d taken the lead in their formation. One pulled his knife from his belt while the others took Edison’s arms.
Edison glanced at me. I gave the tiniest shake of the head. He could take these three easily, but what about the rest? We weren’t going to win this in an outright fight.
The trick was figuring out what these men wanted. I scanned the impassive
, focused faces of the crew looking for clues about how this was going to end. Their steady eyes, their fierce discipline—these were not your ordinary exiles. It was more than just the fact that their beards were trimmed. Or their clothes, though threadbare, were patched and cared for. They had a pride. A sense of purpose about them.
These men were not hungry. Not greedy or lecherous. Even their anger was contained. A jolt of fear shook my core. They didn’t want anything from us. And that was very bad news indeed.
“Now,” the crewboss said, a sneer creeping into his voice, “what are a Curador and his Kisaeng doing wandering about in Tierra Muerta?”
“I’m nobody’s Kisaeng!” I injected emotion into my voice, letting fear stain the edges of my words. I needed to upset the tightly controlled balance of this situation. And I needed to do it while not seeming like a threat.
The crewboss pulled a long, curved knife from his belt and came closer, looking me over. I held his gaze defiantly, but added the tiniest lip tremble. The man looked old—his long brown face wind-blasted and scarred—but his black eyes were sharp and bright. In truth, he probably wasn’t much past thirty-five. Even back in Pleiades, you were one of the lucky ones if you made it into your forties.
“I believe you.” He ran the point of his knife along my cheekbone and up into my scalp, using it to lift up a clump of my butchered hair. “Clearly you’re one of us . . . forgotten out here while your own people make deals with the devil.”
The thing is, I was sure I’d seen a flash of recognition in his face, just as I recognized him from the other day.
“Well, the boys are always happy to make a new . . . friend.” There was cruelty in his voice, but it didn’t reach his eyes. With an unsettling realization, I understood he was like me—playing a part. Trying to get a response. And as his knife slowly ran down the length of my neck and came to rest between my breasts, he got one.
“Don’t touch her!” Edison wasn’t pretending. He strained at the men holding him—anger and frustration spilling out of his suit’s speakers. “The Curadores will come looking for me . . . and her. They know how to find us!”
And I remembered that the Curadores were tracking our signal even now.
A smug grin widened the crewboss’s face. Evidently, that was the information he’d been looking for.
“And so they will find you . . . a tragic victim of the sandstorm. After all, we can’t let you report back that we’re collecting equipment.” Then the man’s face went deadly serious. “Kill him.”
Edison went wild, struggling to get free. He was huge and powerful, but he couldn’t take on all twenty-five of them. Five closed in on Edison, knives out. Next to me, the crewboss looked on with a grim satisfaction. He thought the fight was over, but I was just getting started.
The heel of my right hand slammed up into his chin—snapping his neck back—while my left hand grabbed his knife. He stumbled away from me and I kicked him in the ribs, right where I’d stabbed him the other day. He moaned and collapsed on the ground.
It only took seconds. And before any of the men could reach me, I had my boot on the crewboss’s sternum—knife at his throat. “Let the Curador go.”
The men around Edison lowered their knives, but they didn’t release him. Even now, the crew stayed calm, if hyperfocused.
“Let him go, or I’ll kill your crewboss.” A trickle of blood ran down my fingers from where I’d grabbed the crewboss’s blade, and I wiped it on my pants.
“Six fingers!” one of the men shouted, pointing at my hands now. “She’s got six fingers.”
I held the knife steady—but the balance around me was changing, a crack finally appearing in the crew’s restraint. A split second before, everyone had been ready to give up. To lay down their knives at the boss’s signal. Now there was a growing restlessness.
Would they want to kill me now too? Would their hatred for my Corruption trump their concern for their leader? Suddenly, one of the younger exiles let go of Edison.
“It’s her . . . she’s alive!” He put his knife away and crossed to me, face breaking into a grin. “Leica! It’s you, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER 8
HEARING MY NAME from that stranger, that exile, unsettled me. Like I’d suddenly lost my footing. I looked closer at the crew, who’d fragmented into several excited, whispered conversations, studying him. Under all the dirt and scruff, I finally made out a familiar face—a man from Building Nine. Well, not man—boy. Too young even for a proper beard. If I remembered right, he was a year younger than me . . . Lotus’s age. And last time I’d seen him, he’d been part of a mob of kids who liked to torment me. His hair was shaggier now, but I recognized his stubborn chin and rebellious eyes.
Alejo. Yes. That was his name.
“I’m Leica. What’s it to you?” This set off a new wave of whispers and my neck prickled with alarm. My name meant something to them.
“It’s okay.” Alejo came toward me with open palms, showing me he was unarmed. “We’re not your enemy.”
But a few of the exiles were still holding Edison, looking unsure.
Unsure was dangerous. I adjusted my grip on the knife at their leader’s throat. “Then why do you still have my friend? If you’re not my enemy, then tell them to let him go.”
Alejo looked to his crewboss. “Jaesun?”
I backed off the knife, just enough to let the crewboss—Jaesun—speak.
“Do what she says,” he ordered.
“Now.” I eased my boot off Jaesun’s chest as they released Edison. “Someone better tell me exactly what’s going on.”
“Alejo thinks you’re one of us. Not just an exile, but an Indigno.” Jaesun’s eyes glinted as he uttered the Abuelos’ insult—full of challenge. “So . . . are you?”
I made my face and my words hard, crouching in the sand, so Jaesun and I were face-to-face. “Am I what?”
There’s a moment in every fight when you win or lose . . . and it’s rarely a showy punch. It’s usually something too small for the spectators to notice. A clever feint. A tiny hesitation. An opening. Whatever this man’s challenge was—this was the moment.
Jaesun smiled. “One of us.”
“Michinnom! I don’t even know who you are!” I laid the tip of the knife so it tucked, ever so gently, just under his rib cage. “And you don’t know me or what I’m capable of.”
“I know that you accepted your exile with bravery and honor. That you protected your sisters with your silence,” Jaesun said.
Evidently this is what it meant to have your humiliation take place in front of thousands. And my hackles rose up, my instincts from that day at the Festival kicking in again. “My sisters have nothing to—”
“I know that your crew is gone,” Jaesun interrupted. “And I know that we have more in common than you think.”
“He’s right.” Alejo took a step closer.
I pulled my own knife from my belt—one in each hand now, trying to keep control of the situation. “Back off.”
Alejo put his hands up again. “Jaesun, we’d better take her with us. She needs to see to understand.”
I laughed, the noise coming out a little strangled. “What part of my blade gave you the impression I would go anywhere with you?”
“’Cause it’s better than dying out here alone,” Jaesun said. “No supplies. No allies.”
Alone? I looked to Edison, confused . . . but he was gone. Then I spotted him, already halfway up the dune—heading in the direction of the Exchange.
The shock must have shown on my face. Because Jaesun got to his feet, brushing sand from his beard. “And here was me . . . hoping you two kids were gonna work it out.”
“Should we go after him?” Alejo tried to sound tough, but I could tell he was hoping Jaesun would say no.
I hoped so too. My chest was cold with Edison’s desertion, but I did
n’t want him dead.
“He’s not worth it.” I hoped that—if these exiles believed I was one of them—my words would hold the necessary weight. “He wasn’t lying . . . more Curadores are already on their way.”
Jaesun’s eyes were glued to Edison’s receding figure, like he couldn’t stand to let a Curador get away. But eventually, Jaesun turned back to his crew. “Leave him. We need to get back to camp before it gets dark.”
I turned my back on Edison too—I had no choice. I tried to reconcile the Edison who’d raced against the sandstorm. Who’d told me stories in the flood. Tried to reconcile that Edison with the one who was disappearing over the dune and leaving me with these exiles.
It stung. And worse than that, I felt stupid. Had I misunderstood his offer to come live in the Dome with him? But then I thought of Edison standing in the desert of wildflowers, amazed and grinning. We are the same.
No. I hadn’t imagined it.
But the crew had already returned to formation and were heading off—I didn’t have time to waste trying to parse what Edison had or had not meant. They didn’t bother trying to corral me. Jaesun was right. I was exposed out here. I was almost out of water. Plus, they had the radio . . . and making contact with Earth was still my best and only path home. I might not trust this crew, or even understand who they were, but my choice was already made.
I fell into step behind them. I’d keep my knife close, my eyes open, and see how this next round played out.
• • •
It was another few hours back to their camp. Most of the crew kept their distance, but Alejo stayed close to me. And I stayed close to the salvaged radio—trying to tell what kind of shape it was in. There were other Finds piled on the slideboard alongside it. Old computer components and bits of metal.
“If you’re not going to trade that salvage with the Curadores, why collect it?” I kept my voice even, trying not show it was important to me.
“We’re always on the lookout for intact electronics. In fact, that’s why we were staking out your camp.” And Alejo looked just a little bit ashamed. “We ran across the shuttle a couple days ago and knew someone had gotten there first. Later, when we found your camp, we were hoping to trade for whatever you guys might’ve salvaged. But then the other crew showed up. And there was all that smoke and you made a run for it and . . .” He paused, as if stuck in that moment. Finally he said, “I swear, we didn’t know your whole crew was dead. We thought it might be some kind of ambush or something.”
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