“Like hells,” Eris spits. Her cryo gloves burst to life, and she tugs her goggles down into place. “But you owe all of us an explanation.”
Jenny simply touches her brow, miming the tipping of a hat, and sweeps her gaze over her crew. At the inaudible orders, they peel off from the group without a word, claiming their positions in the shadows.
Three Windups total. It should be four, but one of the Pilots lies dead twenty miles in the opposite direction. I still have his blood on my sleeve.
Three Windups total. I cock my head, brow furrowing as I listen. Two pairs of footsteps.
Eris goes rigid at my side at the exact moment it looms into view, and barely so, black metal skin nearly edgeless against the night, flanked by an Argus on each side. Its crimson gaze is the only splotch of color it holds.
“The Phantom is ours,” Eris says softly, dangerously.
This time, from her place in the darkness, Jenny bows. When she comes up, she is meeting my eye, her smile wicked and sharp. Grinning at absurdity. Then she is gone, too, vanished into the tree line.
“All right!” Eris calls, and the crew snaps to attention. “Here’s the plan…”
The static erupts into lightning, flowing into my breath. The Phantom nears, its footsteps soundless, but somehow, I hear it ticking, as if the gears’ hum can break through layers and layers of iron, like a heartbeat. Like an invitation to rip it out.
I see you, I think to myself. Tonight, you’ll see me, too.
* * *
“Duck!” Nova yells.
Theo and I rise carefully once the guard teeters over the edge of the platform, her and the knife in her neck swallowed by the darkness below. We did not hear her come up until the gun clicked in her hands, and Nova swung down from an upper support beam.
“Where the hells did you come from?” Theo shouts, gawking at the girl.
Nova frowns, her shoulders heaving from her efforts. She turns and stomps toward the platform supporting the hip mechanism. “I don’t like your tone. Where’s the thank you, Novs, oh thank you so much for saving our sorry asses I deserve?”
“Thank you, Nova,” I offer as we follow, wiping the sweat on my brow away with my sleeve, forgetting that blood has drenched the fabric. Two guards down.
“That’s all I wanted to hear,” chirps Nova. Then, she buries another knife into the wall of gears feeding into the Phantom’s hip mechanism.
The churning slows for a moment, but the blade flattens and breaks, and Nova yelps as the hilt pops off and pings past us.
She straightens quickly and looks at us, nose wrinkling. “Points for trying?”
Theo sighs. “Where’s Xander?”
“And Eris?” I add.
“Xander’s around here somewhere,” Nova answers. “I thought Cap was with you.”
“She must still be outside.” I squint down into the leg where we entered, after Juniper and Arsen’s explosives blasted a hole in the ankle. The moment the Phantom stumbled and fell on all fours, we weaved our way through the smoke and dust, slipping inside before it could stand again. “I could have sworn Eris was right behind me—”
“I am,” she says, right behind me.
I spin around to find her clinging to the bolts of a vertical support beam, breathing labored. Her goggles reflect the darkness around us, sockets filled with void. “I got distracted. There’s—”
The unmistakable screech of bullets tears the air, and instinctively, I flinch and duck my head. But after a distinct set of shots shriek without a ricochet to dodge, I realize that the barrage is not from inside.
“Berserkers,” Nova curses. “How many?”
“Enough that we need all hands on deck. And Gods know how many more are following from the tunnel,” Eris huffs. I realize that the gleam along the top of her goggles is not sweat, but blood. The gash along her hairline has reopened. “How many guards did you get?”
“Two,” Theo says, tossing a sheepish glance to Nova. “There might be—”
A shot rings, vibrant and echoing, this time from within. We snap our heads upward, ready to scale, but all we see is a thin shadow peel from the darkness. It attaches to a curtain of wires and slips downward, landing neatly on a support beam ten feet away.
Xander props a crowbar on his shoulder, its end slick and glistening, and raises a single finger. The middle one.
“That should be all of them, then,” Eris concludes, and points downward. “Theo, Nova, Xander, you’re with me. It’s chaos out there.” Her smile is quick, then gone, and her glance toward me is solemn. “Do what you do here, Glitch.”
My throat goes dry. They are already moving, Theo and Nova leaping to a lower platform, Xander vanishing altogether. Eris places both hands back on the support beam, but before she can slip away, too, I clamp a hand on her shoulder with a lurch of panic.
Eris cocks her head as the silence thickens. “Glitch? I kind of have somewhere to be.”
“I…,” I start, voice wavering. “I can’t do this.”
She pushes her goggles up, brow furrowed. “What?”
I swallow hard. “Please do not make me do this.”
“But you’ve done it before. Easily.” She retracts her hand from the beam and places it on my wrist, squeezing slightly. There is concern across her features, and the guilt presses down hard. “I thought … I thought you knew this was part of the job description.”
My eye widens. I reel from her touch, stepping back as far as the platform will allow. “You never said that! I … I can’t do that again.”
“Why not?”
Why not? Why do I never want to be wound again, to own a body greater than mine? Why would anyone pass up that opportunity? But all I say is, in a frustrated burst of breath, “I would not be able to Godsdamn see, for starters!”
Eris blinks once, then detaches from her hold and lands hard on the platform. Despite myself, I flinch as she nears, but she walks right past me, and the shadows recoil as her gloves flare to life.
She presses a hand against the gears of the hip mechanism. Where Nova’s knife failed, the frost roots and ravages. Eris slams her fist against the ice, and the metal splits with a jagged, screeching complaint. Around us, the Windup shudders as the Phantom falters in its next step.
“Gods, Sona,” Eris sighs, turning back, running a hand through her hair. “I wasn’t sending you off to wind yourself. I wanted you to make sure the Pilot is out.”
“Oh.” I touch my blade, nestled at my side, finding the comfort ingrained in its metal. It only feels cold—the shock of panic draining from my veins. “Oh Gods, of course you were.”
And now the heat floods in, into my cheeks, the base of my throat. I look away, locating the ladder to the neck.
“Go, Frostbringer” is all I manage, stepping off the platform and slipping from view, my heartbeat a cannon to accompany the mecha’s faltering footsteps.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ERIS
I open my eyes when my body hits the ground, every nerve alive with energy, adrenaline chipping my breath thin. I bolt upright, fists clenched, head whipping around for the fight.
Theo yelps and falls back on his hands. Arsen stays upright but takes a step back, chuckling, palms up in defense. “Whoa, Cap. We just wanted to tell you we’re almost home.”
Oh. Right. I sigh and run a hand through my hair, then wince. Along the gash in my hairline crisscrosses a row of stitches, set by Xander’s careful hands, and the whole area burns from the salve.
We survived, but every part of me is tense, coiled tight and ready to burst. Ready to bolt.
“Bad dream?” asks a voice from above.
I look up, where on the opposite side of the crate, Sona sits with her legs dangling, sword balanced across her knees. She’s perched on a stack of metal pieces, each six feet long, sculpted into sharp points at their tips.
The Archangel’s feathers. Some of them, anyway. Jenny thought it would be a smoother ride in the hoverbarge’s crates rather than p
acking back into the trucks, but by the tightness in my stomach, I’m not sure that’s the case.
Sona slips off the feathers, landing lightly, and takes a seat beside me. In my peripheral vision, she folds back the sleeve of her jacket, skimming over her tattoos.
“You get more now.”
She doesn’t respond. When I look over at her, there’s a massive smile lifting her cheeks. I haven’t seen her smile like that before. This isn’t her just baring her teeth, and there’s no coyness or wryness here—just a pure and bright kind of happiness.
It drains abruptly when she catches me staring, and she folds the arm close to her chest. “Why tattoos, Eris? Why not just keep a tally on a sheet of paper somewhere?”
I smirk. “You can do that instead, if you want.”
“That is not what I said.”
I reach up and lay my palm flat against my own gears. “People in the Badlands either worship Godolia or they fear it. Live their lives in awe or in terror. Gearbreakers refuse to do either.” In the crook of my collarbone, my heartbeat thrums—alive, alive, alive—despite each drop of ink that screams I shouldn’t be by now. “Where Godolia wants everyone to keep their dread close, we mark our strength. On the skin they think they own, we mark our freedom. They will see our defiance is infinite.”
Sona sighs and rests her cheek on her hand. Her low whisper is to herself, but I still catch it: “I get more now.” A slow, bittersweet joy fills my chest.
Soon, the hoverbarge slows, and my crew peels from their places and opens up our crate’s entrance. Beyond is the Hollows’ gate, and on the edge of the deck perches Jenny’s crew—Jenny at the front, hands on her hips, everything about her pose telling me that a smirk is across her lips.
“I’m being nice,” she calls down to the gate operator. “You let me in, or I’m going to make an entrance.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I always do.”
“Voxter says you’re on suspension,” the operator yells back. Within, a crowd of Gearbreakers has gathered, faces pressed as close to the electrified gate as possible, whispers cackling and sharp. “That you’re all on suspension.”
“Hoorah.” Jen yawns. “I need some sleep, anyway. Let us pass.”
Eventually, after a few more rounds of shouting, a reluctant and exhausted groan sounds from below, and the gates unlock and creak open. My crew files out of the crate as the hoverbarge makes its way through the Hollows, coming to a dead stop at the courtyard, where it whirs off and lowers softly to the ground. Gearbreakers gather below, shuffling in anticipation.
Nova tenses as a stiff figure bats its way through the crowd. “Oh boy.”
“We’ve done it now, haven’t we?” Arsen murmurs.
“What in the names of the million Gods is this?” Voxter booms, cane rapping against the concrete path. Gwen presses a button, lowering the hoverbarge’s ramp. Voxter clambers up it, listing on his cane. “Jenny Shindanai!”
“Yes, dear?” Jenny coos as Voxter nears. Her gloved hands hang relaxed at her sides.
Voxter sweeps his eyes over the deck, landing on one of the open crates, the sheaf of steel feathers glistening in the afternoon light.
“That’s … You brought…” He straightens, collects himself, then begins to scream again. “You are done here, Shindanai! Disobeying the Council, bringing Archangel pieces here, putting us all in danger. You are banished, effective immediately.”
“Ha. No thanks.”
Voxter’s vein pulsates in his temple. “No thanks? Who do you think you are?”
“The one who’s going to end all of this, Vox,” Jen says, voice rising proudly. The whispers of the crowd extinguish like a candle flame. “Godolia’s always looking toward the ground for us, never once thinking to look above.”
No one moves for a good ten seconds, letting her words ring. Then, Voxter steps forward and drives the end of his cane into Sona’s shoulder. She falls, catches herself on the heels of her hands, crumples again when his boot meets her cheekbone.
“What delusions have you spread here, Bot?” he roars.
I shout and lunge at him, only to be caught by Jenny’s iron grip. I expect her to hold me back, but instead, she forces me out of the way, snatching Voxter’s cane. She snaps it up, smashing its end against the underside of his chin, tosses it to the deck as he stumbles back, swearing violently. It takes less time than my blink of surprise.
“We need her,” she says simply. “Now, as I was saying … As everyone knows, I can take apart a Windup with my eyes closed. I can damn well put one back together again.”
My mouth drops open. From the ground, Sona looks up, eye widening. She must hear it, too—Jenny’s voice, casual and coy, I can never pass up a weapon.
My words come out sounding thin. “You want to build that thing?”
Startled murmurings burst across the courtyard, only flaring for a few seconds before Vox slams his boot into the metal side of the hoverbarge, but my gaze is on Sona, on the new tremble to her shoulders. Please do not make me do this.
“You want to use a Windup to take out other Windups?” he grunts, blood dotting his lip as he snatches up his cane. “Don’t be ludicrous.”
Jenny chuckles. “Please. You’re not thinking big enough. Why destroy a few pesky mechas when we could get them all in one go?”
“You want to hit the Academy,” Sona gasps, rising shakily to her feet. “Use the Archangel to rain hellsfire over Godolia’s streets.”
“Hellsfire is the Gods’ weaponry,” Jenny responds, waving all primal ideas of the Gods away with a careless flick of her fingers. “I’m talking about those glorious missiles. I’m talking about using the very thing that Godolia calls its protection as its destruction.”
“It won’t work,” Sona says. “You would need to kill the Zeniths, too, if you want to destroy their chances at recovery. And even then … they are the puppet masters, but their subordinates can replace them just as easily. There are people groomed from birth to be Zeniths, dozens of them, backups upon backups. You cannot guarantee that they will all be at the Academy when you wish to strike.”
“Same goes with the mechas,” Voxter sneers. “The only time that a significant number of them would be gathered at the Academy would be—”
A beat of silence. Jenny waits, looking smug, drumming her fingers against her hips.
“Holy shit,” I say.
“You want to attack the Heavensday Parade,” Sona finishes.
“Ah, they finally catch up.” Jen sighs. “The Heavensday Parade, when the Zeniths and their subordinates and all the students and Pilots will be gathered in one place for the celebration. The streets around the Academy will be cleared and mechas from every unit will stand shoulder to shoulder to watch over the Zeniths’ lavish party, held in that ridiculous gold courtyard. Unwound, of course, only serving as eye candy for the Academy’s higher-ups as they eat their sweets and celebrate the new year, as well as a handsome reminder of Godolia’s infinite strength for all those common folk milling about. They will serve as a perfect bull’s-eye.”
Another beat of silence.
Then Voxter starts to laugh.
“You would never get that thing in the air,” he says.
“Watch me,” Jen says, meeting his gaze with her own unflinching one. “We have more than enough mecha parts lying about.”
“The end of the year is only a month and a half away, girl.”
She shrugs. “So I’ll lose a few nights’ sleep. With everyone’s help, we should pull through. And everyone will help, because no Gearbreaker would pass up an opportunity like this. No true Gearbreaker, anyway.”
“I don’t condone this,” Voxter snarls. “And I am the final word around here, if you have forgotten that.”
“I guess we know where you stand, then,” remarks Jenny.
“You are undermining everything that the Gearbreakers stand for,” Voxter presses. “Our purpose is to destroy Windups with nothing else except the talents we were born with, to show the
Badlands people that humans still hold power in this Gods-infested world. Using a Windup to serve our cause erases our cause. I should damn well know that better than anyone, I’m—”
“The creator,” Jenny finishes in a bored tone. “The great leader of the Gearbreakers, turning tail when there’s some Gearbreaking to be done. As for your supposed ‘purpose’—” She puts a hand up and twists her fingers in the air. The lanterns gleam over the orange glaze of her gloves, reflecting in her bared teeth. “Being human is highly overrated.”
Vox sweeps his sight over the gathered crowd, sees the realization that each pair of eyes rests on Jen rather than himself. The creator. The great leader of the Gearbreakers. He swallows hard, steeling his glare.
“You are not to build the Archangel. That is a direct order, Jenny Shindanai.”
Her grin is ravenous. “Ah, Vox. You always know what to say to motivate me.”
Voxter’s fingers tighten dangerously over the silver knob of the cane. Jen’s eyes touch on his whitened knuckles before skipping up to his face, the dare embedded in her amused expression.
No one moves to claim it.
Jen crosses her arms, chuckling a bit. “Good, then. We have our engineer. We have our pieces.”
I know what comes next. Glitch’s eye flicks to me.
Please.
Jenny’s sight slips down, onto Sona.
“Now,” Jenny says, “we just need a Pilot.”
I can’t do this.
My hands rise toward the crates. The glow of the cryo gloves is harsh against the soft fall light. I barely recognize what I’m doing; I just know that my throat is tight, and Sona is part of my crew, and I protect my own.
But I hesitate nonetheless.
Because suddenly, in my glance over to her, I watch Godolia burn to the ground. A crater where it once sat. A burn mark on every single map where its blot used to taint the paper.
Because she could end this.
“Wait!”
To my surprise, the shout doesn’t come from Jenny, but from Vox. The hook of his cane bites over my wrist, yanking. My crew yelps and scrambles out of the way, and I deactivate the gloves and shove him back.
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