Alliance Series Books 1-5
A Dystopian Thriller
Inna Hardison
Inna Hardison
Copyright © 2021 by Inna Hardison
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
From The Author
Thank you for picking up the Alliance Series Box Set. For trusting an unknown to you author. For embarking on this journey with the characters I’d been living with for the better part of three years.
A few things to keep in mind. The narrative perspectives switch from character to character, especially in the first two books, so it’s important to note the point of view in the chapter subheadings. Additionally, not everything in the books is narrated chronologically, so you should also note the timeline that’s stated in the subheading of each chapter. Where not noted, assume the novel’s present day.
I had considered a more linear approach, but this just felt like a more honest way of handling the events in the series, so bear with me.
I hope you enjoy the ride. Thank you for being here.
Inna Hardison-
There are beautiful print editions available of all five books if you’d like to have a hard copy.
Contents
ESCAPE
1. The Fall
2. The Pill
3. The Fence
4. Razor
5. Scars
6. Rosemary
7. The Mutes
8. Jess
9. Ghosts
10. Sage
11. Broken
12. The Journal
13. Traitor
14. Mi2
15. Serpent Stew
16. Silent City
17. Smoke
18. The Edge
19. Monsters
20. The Fire
21. Bones
22. Tagged
23. The Promise
24. The Waterfall
THE CROSS
1. The Pact
2. The Cage
3. Leashed
4. The Stream
5. Birch
6. Stories
7. Seven Steps
8. The Exchange
9. Waller
10. Carthage
11. The Cross
12. The Unwanted
13. The Tracker
14. Prisoner
15. Huxer Genetics
16. The Plan
17. Fragile
18. Tamed
LEGACY
1. Recruit
2. Awake
3. History Lesson
4. The Flight
5. The Hostage
6. The Roof
7. Allies
8. Lancer
9. The Dress
10. Suicide Squad
11. Embers
12. Portraits
13. Leverage
14. Legacy
15. Rogue
16. The Sacrifice
17. Orphan
18. Lineage
19. Executioners
20. Revenge
21. Confession
Epilogue
THE CODE
Author’s Note:
1. Runaways
2. Secrets
3. Downstream
4. Letting Go
5. Betrayal
6. Atonement
7. Old Enemies
8. The Murderer
9. Poison
10. The Trial
11. The Lost
12. A Good Death
13. The Code
14. The Last Eagle
15. Hearts Of Giants
16. Dragon Slayer
17. Words Among Men
18. A Soldier
19. Shame
UNBROKEN
Prologue
1. Mahler
2. The Oath
3. Damaged
4. Unbroken
5. The Endangered
6. Broken Bonds
7. Lies
8. Idris
9. The Bully
10. Paintings
11. Colton
12. The Big Dipper
13. Piano Lessons
14. Jasmine
15. Blanche
16. Insomniacs
Epilogue
About the Author
1
The Fall
Amelia, March 28, 2236 (Present Day), 480 Kilometers from Carthage, NY
This last bit of stolen concealer wouldn’t last much longer. Amelia dabbed the paste on two pinkish dots just outside the bridge of her nose, spread it outward, and worked it in until she was satisfied that no one but her could see them.
The first time she saw them a few months ago she tried washing them off, scrubbing at them with every kind of soap she could find in the compound, but they stubbornly remained just where they were. Something about them seemed so very foreign on her otherwise perfectly white skin, and she was too frightened to tell anyone, even Laurel. And then, one morning, she simply woke up knowing exactly what they were: marks of impurity, an indication that something was wrong with her genes, her DNA, the very thing that made her and all the other girls here so valuable.
Of course, she'd known what they were for as long as she'd been at the compound, which was exactly as long as she could remember herself, but just like all the other things she knew, these bits of knowledge surfaced like memories only when they were needed. She couldn't control when they appeared any more than she could erase the marks from her cheeks.
Stealing more of the concealer from the loft of the woman whose job it was to teach the girls how to apply makeup was risky, but the woman was not due to arrive for another three weeks, and nobody else had any business going up to the very last story of the compound, this dusty place below the beams of the roof.
She found it by chance on one of her before-sunup explorations of the place, something she did every time she couldn't sleep, which happened more and more frequently of late. She’d taken the stairs up, two at a time, until she finally collapsed into this vast, empty space. It was hot and smelled the way she imagined a tree would smell on the inside, although she'd never seen one up close. The windows overlooking the yard were coated with a film of oily dust, and she felt compelled to draw patterns on them, but the thought of someone discovering her in this new hideaway kept her hands firmly behind her back.
Standing at the window now, she watched the birds flit above the wall of the compound and disappear on the other side. The side where all things were dangerous. The side where people were genetically off. The side where those who killed her parents and the parents of all the other girls lived. As she watched what now popped into her mind as definitely a sparrow bounce on the aged stones, a body suddenly flung itself or was flung by someone over the wall. She calculated its chances of survival at 39.27%.
It would be at least another hour until the first of the residents woke up to do their morning chores, and Drake was likely asleep up in that cozy cabin he made for himself at the top of the watchtower. No one had ever broken into this place in all the years she’d been here.
The lawn would have muffled the sound of the fall some.
Intending to wake the mistress, she raced down to the fourth floor where the staff was housed in their luxurious rooms with private baths and ac
tual maids, dark and slender mutes who moved in and out of the shadows of the compound. Something in her hesitated. She knew what the protocol called for: raise the alarm, wake up the mistress, and in case of an actual attack by Zoriners, grab one of the stun guns located in the alcoves throughout the compound, five meters apart, and use it for personal protection while the adults handle the rest. She reached into the closest alcove and pulled down a sleek, gray weapon. It buzzed softly and felt warm to the touch, although it looked like it was made of metal, and she recalled just now that metal was supposed to feel cold.
She went past where the mistress slept, following the stairs to the bottom, and raced outside toward the dark form splayed out by the wall, its arms akimbo, a tangle of dark hair covering the face. It looked Zorin. It also looked young. She stopped, breathless, just out of lunging distance of the lifeless body, had it been alive and capable of lunging for her. Staring at the torn shirt and streaks of blood covering what little she could see of its flesh, it was definitely a boy. Moments later, she could see that he was breathing.
Stifling a scream, she jumped back a full meter and pointed the stun gun at him as he tried to rise. And then he did and was standing, staring back at her. The eyes were enormous brown circles that looked directly into her gray ones.
Nothing in her memory vault was helping her figure out what to do now. She aimed the buzzing weapon at his chest and waited. She could hear him breathing hard, probably from the pain. They seemed to simply stare at each other, transfixed, for ages. Finally, he took a step forward and calmly took her gun-holding hand in his, moving her aim a little to the left, and pressed his chest to the barrel. He was still looking into her eyes, but it was entirely unlike that time Laurel stared at her when they were wrestling and she almost broke her arm. Laurel, who was too proud to beg for mercy, had looked at her with so much pain that she immediately let go and swore never to fight again. He wasn't looking at her like that at all.
"Can't remember which button to press?" His voice was soft, quiet. He slowly raised his hand and put it on top of hers. Squeezing gently, he moved her index finger under the arch protecting the trigger and the buzzing of the gun got louder. Suddenly, she was deathly afraid. Afraid that he would press the trigger.
She jerked her hand down and threw the safety back on. The buzzing died.
"If you don't do this, they might," he said, pointing to the other side of the fence with his head, "so shoot me or help me get into the compound. You can do with me what you will afterward. I'm in no state to run at the moment." He said it flatly, quietly, as if he didn't care what she'd do.
She couldn't shoot him. "Can you walk?"
He nodded.
She turned around and started back toward the buildings.
He walked with a slight limp but was moving as quickly as she was. It only took a few minutes to get inside, but there was no way he'd be able to make it up all those stairs before the compound woke up. He approached the staircase leading up to the loft.
'How many?' he asked as if he could tell what she was thinking.
"248 steps."
He nodded and started up without looking at her. When she pulled up, exhausted, to the top landing and peeked into the loft, she could see a figure in the semi-darkness hunched over in front of a large mirror. His shirt was off and he was scrutinizing a multitude of oddly shaped scrapes and bruises on his flesh. She wanted to turn away, feeling sick to her stomach and a little embarrassed.
He saw her in the mirror but silently kept at his task as if she wasn't there. His jaw was clenched and his breathing became strained when he touched something as he assessed the damage.
She remembered now that she had medical knowledge, if not training per se. If anything was broken, she'd likely know what to do to help fix it. But how could she tell this stranger, a boy likely born to the people who killed her people, that she wanted to help? How do you approach someone who had held your hand with the gun against his chest, not caring if you pulled the trigger?
She turned her face away from him and waited. She heard him run the water at the sink and after a while, heard him put his shirt back on. Now she could look at him again.
He turned around and looked her in the eyes for a long time, and then walked right up to her, took her gently by the shoulders, and leaned in close to her, so close she could feel the warm air on her forehead when he spoke: "Thank you. For not shooting me. I'm Riley. I am Zorin-born, but you already know that. I don't know what they've told you about us or the world outside these walls, but we are not animals . . . I need to know if I’m putting you in danger. I'll turn myself in. If not, I need to hide here for a few days, just until my ribs heal enough for me to run." He said all of it very quietly, quickly, in a rush. Now he waited. His eyes remained calm, but his chest moved much too fast for someone who looked as calm and unconcerned as he did.
She stood frozen, unable to move. There was a faint feeling of warmth spreading from the middle of her forehead to the rest of her face. She knew she was blushing now, and that he could see it. Looking down seemed safer than into those intruding eyes of his. He waited patiently, silently, watching her. She could feel him looking at her face—through it, almost—forcing her to look up at him. For some reason, she felt like crying. It had been a very long time since she’d cried, but there was no mistaking the lump in her throat for anything else. She felt a solitary tear spill from the corner of her eye and run down her cheek, making a track through the milky paste she had spent so long working into her skin, not an hour before. She stepped back and turned to run, toward the stairs, toward the safety of her room, toward the welcoming smells of breakfast soon to be emanating from the kitchen, her favorite place besides the garden in this entire walled city of survivors and replenishers.
A not-too-gentle hand squeezed her shoulder and turned her around. He took her by the neck and walked her, stumbling as she went, to the mirror. He flicked the light on. She could see one of her marks, plain as day. Her hands shook, as she thought of all the things that could have happened if she’d been discovered; if they realized she was not what they thought she was. They would likely expel her, throw her out of the Compound and into the world beyond these walls; make her live amongst the dark-haired, dark-eyed people with no knowledge of anything—the memoryless. People who lived as if they were savages and the centuries of civilization didn't happen for them.
His hands traveled to her shoulders and held her in place. He was watching her face in the mirror, waiting in that way he had. There was something about the way he stopped her from leaving . . . As if he knew she didn't belong here; knew there was something wrong with her. And it didn’t make any kind of sense for a Zorin-born outsider to know any of it.
He gently turned her around to face him. "You have freckles. I know that's not what you call them, or what they mean to you, but that's what they are. If you spent more time outside, you'd have more of them. They come from the sun. It doesn't mean there is anything wrong with you. I'm sorry if I scared you, Amelia."
She felt a punch to her stomach on hearing her name from his lips. Nobody outside these walls even knew she existed. He drew his finger over the A.L. on her neck, the initials that were tattooed into the base when she was chosen to become a replenisher. Every girl in the same group had unique initials, and no two names started with the same letter. She'd be the only Amelia in this sixteen-year stretch at this compound, but there were others out there, other Amelias that she would likely never meet. That's how he knew.
"Breathe. I keep scaring you like this. I'm sorry. I really need to know if you are in danger for helping me. If there are cameras, or if there’s any chance anyone else saw me fall. I need to know if I can hide here for a little while."
She looked down again, for safety from blushing.
"Please, look at me." He put his hand under her chin, gently lifting her tear-streaked face to his, and stared at her with such intensity that her face burned. Or maybe it just felt that way because she’d ne
ver been this close to a boy before. That thought just made her blush harder.
She didn't know about the cameras, or even if there were any. There didn't seem to be much need for security here, considering the impossibly tall walls surrounding the grounds. Not so impossibly tall. Anything that was not done according to the protocol was risky—that much everybody knew—but turning him in was not an option. They would execute him, or, at the very least, beat him, torture him, and possibly trade him for one of the old guards captured by Zoriners decades ago.
Alliance: The Complete Series (A Dystopian YA Box Set Books 1-5): Dystopian Sci Fi Thriller Page 1