“What do I need, and where do I need to go to get it?” I ask when I find her mixing something that smells foul. The weary look in her eyes fades, replaced by determination as she pulls a small pad of paper from a pocket in her apron.
I wait as she scribbles, my fingers tapping impatiently against the wood of the doorframe. “Take this to the pharmed—are you taking Mistress’ maptable?”
I nod, and she scribbles an address on another sheet. “Tell them Gwenyth Awan of Luenear City sent you,” she orders.
Without showing the shock I feel, I fold the papers and shove them into a pocket, then hurry down the hall.
My City suit is hanging in a small closet on the Mistress’ floor. I notice that Berg’s crisp blue linen is missing—he’ll be waiting, impatiently.
I snatch my outfit, for once not caring about the fine weave, the decadent color. In my room, I pull my dress over my head, drop it heedlessly on the floor before I wiggle into the form fitting pants—it feels like a second skin. A soft, warm skin the color of palest blue.
I slip the top on, noting the way it emphasizes the slight curve of my chest, my narrow waist. I twist my long dark hair into a knot on my head, and assess myself.
I could almost pass for a Citizen. My features are finely formed, my big gray eyes full of unanswerable questions. In this tailored suit I look older, mature. Confident.
As if my world was not shaking under me, threatening to collapse the only life I have ever known.
Since those thoughts never lead to anything productive, and my window to the City is a narrow one—and the Mistress can slam it closed at any time—I slip my shoes on, snatch up Gwen’s note, and race down the stairs to where Berg is waiting.
His eyes scan me when I reach him, and he nods, turning away. I sigh—as angry as he is, this trip will be nothing short of unbearable.
We walk, a weathershield warding us from the elements. It encloses us in a bubble of quiet, tense anger. I don’t speak. Years of being around Berg, around his mood swings and silent rages guides my silence. Free of the need to defend myself, I let my thoughts wander.
The ban-wolf had been concerned about me last night. But it made no sense that a ban-wolf would care about a human girl, an Exile.
The Commission control Cities. They control the marriages within them, the births, even death.
And they control genetic experiments.
After the Cataclysm, the nuclear holocaust that left the world a wreck and ninety five percent of the population dead, bio-geneticists were rounded up. They had been one of the final matches that lit the fire of the Cataclysm—their experiments had resulted in almost invincible reptiles that could spew fire and attacked on whim.
They lost control of their creation, and the dragons spawned like wildfire, killing and mating and killing, a vicious cycle that seemed unstoppable.
The nations of the world had rallied against the bio-geneticists who led the experiments, and before the warheads shadowed the sky, thousands were killed.
After, the Commission culled them from the population, hid them away in anonymity within one of their Cities. Very few Citizens were brave enough to accuse the Commission of using the scientists, of creating the ban-wolves.
But very few have seen them up close, either. Most see the wolves from a distance, or hear their screams. But everyone knows the stories—and seeing them did nothing but confirm the rumors.
Men with the fur of a wolf, the teeth of a killer. Men who were stronger than any man had a right to be. With claws on their hands and feet that made them exceptionally good at slaughter.
Men with the scream of a child, the scream that could lure anyone to them in pity.
It was true—in part. They were heartbreaking. And if the Commission had kept control of them, they would have been a perfect weapon. But the Commission learned well the lessons of our now-dead ancestors: Hybrid experiments are not meant to be caged, controlled and used. They are wild and fierce and pitiless.
The Commission turned the packs loose Outside—if nuclear waste and acid rain storms and roaming dragons aren’t enough to keep the Citizens safely controlled within Shielded cities, vicious packs running the boundaries would.
So why am I still alive? Why would a ban-wolf save my life, and then herd me to safety—they are made for killing, and this sudden kindness makes no sense to me.
“Mistress is sad you didn’t come to her,” Berg says, and my attention jerks from my thoughts about the wolf—was his fur as soft as the clouds it looked like?—to the boy I grew up with.
“She doesn’t exactly go out of her way to make herself accessible, Berg,” I say, crisply.
“She has her reasons, Sabah,” he says.
“Mm, but it seems you’re the only one who knows what those reasons are. Why is that, Berg?” He stops, jerking around to stare at me in surprise. Guilt flares in his eyes. I look away, dread settling in my stomach.
It bothers me that she is so close to him. Berg is mine. We are both bound to the Mistress, a loyalty and debt so deep I cannot see who I am, separated from it. But this... this is different. It is too much. His voice is filled with an affection that I had once thought would only be there for me. I want to say something, but I don’t know what and now the bridge looms through the mist, gleaming like a silver rope before us.
A very small booth sits on our side, the door bearing the seal of the Prince. Berg mutters a curse and shoves the maptable into his bag, withdrawing documents from the Mistress.
We are not Citizens and we never will be. But even the Commission will allow Exiles entrance to the City once a year for essentials—food, meds, sanctuary in very rare cases. They like to trade with the Rover tribes, who scavenge and harvest where the Commission doesn’t bother. These visits are carefully regulated, and expensive beyond belief. But it is possible. And when the Mistress rouses herself, she carries influence that I have never understood. The Keepers are cautious around her, almost afraid. That she can arrange so quickly to have Berg tested at the University is only mildly surprising.
A Keeper pushes open the door, and I am startled that he appears only a year or two older than we do—he must be a new recruit. He stares at us with thinly veiled contempt. “What is your business in Mlena?”
Berg extends our creds, and says, “We need meds—and have Commission marks to purchase them.”
The Keeper grunts, rifling through the papers. He peers at me, a leering grin on his face. “She’s pretty.”
A low growl reaches me, and I shoot a quick look at Berg. But he is still, tense, but quiet. No, he can’t—
“I’m an Exile,” I snap, loudly. I hope that no one else had heard a growl that shouldn’t be here. I keep my face blank, trying not to wonder about the white ban-wolf. Or why he is following me.
The Keeper’s bright interest fades so fast it’s almost laughable. No Citizen will risk their status by having sex with an Exile. He looks back at our papers, and waves us ahead, thrusting them at Berg, “Go on, then. And hurry—Mlena has no need of gutter rats littering its streets.”
Berg ignores that, and takes my hand. The bridge is thin—we can’t walk side by side. It sways in the breeze, the strong alloy metal twisting gracefully to accommodate the weather. Cold leeches from it, the slick ice shining brilliantly in the mist.
Keepers, the military arm of the Commission, use hovertransports to cross the gorge. Citizens never have the need to leave the City—unless they are Insured to someone in another City, and then the Commission arranges escorts. The bridge is solely for Outsiders, Exiles. They make it dangerous to discourage the unwanted scum of society.
But Berg has outsmarted them before, and we fall back on the oldest of his tricks. He wraps a thin chain around my waist, connecting me to him, and he clips the end to a sliding hook he attaches to the bridge itself. He glances at me, a silent question, and I force a smile, full of false confidence.
And then we step out onto nothing.
The whole bridge shudde
rs with the sound of shattering ice echoing across the gorge. It groans, alarmingly, and then the metal adjusts, firm under our feet. It is always a nerve wracking first step. Berg squeezes my hand, inching forward.
It’s over a mile across—our weathershield is already dripping with water, the rain streaking the outer surface, making it almost impossible to see.
I don’t speak, afraid of disturbing Berg’s careful concentration. He guides us with a determination I recognize, a fierce will to live. The minutes stretch as we work our way across the expanse, the lights of the City brightening before us. At one point I look back. The Keeper’s shack is a dim outline. I wonder for a split second if the ban-wolf is out there, watching me.
“Careful, Sabah,” Berg murmurs, and my attention snaps forward again. It’s the first thing he’s said to me since stepping onto the bridge.
I shuffle-step after him, clutching his waist as a particularly strong gust of wind rattles the bridge. It twists with the weather, and my feet slide, edging precariously toward the open nothingness. Then it settles, and Berg is moving forward again.
“Do you really think this will save her?” he asks, his voice unnaturally flat in the silence of the shield.
I shrug even though he can’t see me. “I don’t know. I trust Gwen, and she thinks it will. It’s better than letting the blood infection set in, and watching her waste away.”
He doesn’t argue that, merely leads on through the mist in silence for a long time. I can clearly see the cliff face when he speaks, “It’s not fair to make me the enemy, you know.”
I pause, watching his head. His dark hair is curly, the roots wet with sweat. A scar traces down his neck, disappearing into his shirt—I know they trace all the way down, savage claw marks that mar the smooth beauty of his back.
“I’m not,” I answer finally. “I’m just... Berg, don’t you wish there was more?”
He laughs, and I flinch at the edge that coats his tone when he answers, “We’re Exiled Gutterlings, Sabah. What more is there? We’re lucky to be alive.”
My conversation with the Mistress fills my mind again, and I tilt my head, looking at him. “What is your testing for?”
Berg shrugs, focusing on the bridge. “I’ve been taught our histories, some sciences—she’s trained me as much as she is able.”
“To do what?” I interrupt. “Be a med-tech?”
“I suppose. Sometimes, I don’t think there is a purpose—sometimes I think she has me run tests and experiments just to see if I can.” He grins over his shoulder at me, but something he sees in my expression makes his smile fade. He swallows, and shrugs. “But she’s taught me everything she knows—to find out if it’s enough, I have to be tested by the University professors.”
“And if you fail?”
He pauses, his grip tight on the bridge. “I suppose I’ll join the tribes when they come back. I can marry into the tribe, just as you can. If I can’t test into the University, I have no chance at Citizenship.”
I open my mouth, wanting to ask if that’s what he wants. To be a Citizen. But I close it again, without voicing the question—I’m not sure I want to hear his answer. He’s always longed to be a part of the city in a way I haven’t.
We both fall silent as we near the other end of the bridge. He reaches back, squeezing my hand. I suppress a shiver as I see the Gate, the Keepers looming before me in a foggy cloud.
“Let me speak,” he murmurs as he pulls me off the bridge with him. We approach the Keepers and without waiting for them to order it, Berg deactivates our weathershield.
The rain and wind are biting and loud after hours of silence. I shiver, the fine mist coating my hair as Berg hands our creds to the Keepers.
Unlike the previous Keeper, who seemed to have more interest in me than my papers, this contingent is serious, hard, and weathered. Their eyes are blank—I see disdain flicker there for the briefest moment before it’s gone.
“Are you clean?” the young one asks, scrutinizing our papers.
We nod—Gwen makes sure all of us are immunized and toxin-free. Our papers reflect it—she may be a stripped Citizen, but the Commission still acknowledges her medic training.
“How long will you be in Mlena?” an older Keeper asks. I glance at his uniform for the shoulder straps that mark him as a Captain.
Berg looks at me, then answers, “Last light. We’ll be out of the City before the Gate closes.”
The Captain grunts, and nods. He motions to the Keeper at his side and she steps forward, clipping trackers onto our legs. “They’ll monitor where you are—if you aren’t out of the City by Gate closing, the Commission reserves the right to detain you,” he adds.
Berg nods, and we submit to the bodyscan that ensures we’re not bringing toxins or weapons into the City. Finally cleared, the Keepers return our papers and shuffle us through the checkpoint. The Gate looms ahead of us, glowing blue in the dimness of midday.
Every City has a Gate—a panel in the Shield that can be opened without exposing the whole of the City. A bit wider than a hovertransport, twenty feet tall, it is rigorously guarded, the only way in or out. I hate going through the Gate. It crackles with electric pulses, and I always feel as if the Commission is analyzing me, weighing my worth in their orderly world.
Berg makes me go in first—on the City-side of the Gate there is nothing but the bustling lives of Citizens. Outside, Keepers carry guns and don’t hesitate to use them. And the speculative looks they send our way makes both of us nervous.
A dark-haired Keeper checks my tracker again before she leads me forward. She smiles at me, almost friendly, before she pushes me into the Gate.
The electric pulse is like frozen fire, seizing along my skin as I float through the Gate, pulled along by an unseen current. Halfway through, the pressure compresses, and for a moment, I cannot blink, cannot breathe. Even my heartbeat falters. My whole body prickles, as if I am being watched, and then it’s gone and I float the rest of the way through. The Gate dumps me into the City with little warning, and I stumble a little.
Berg comes through behind me, landing with a curse. He scrambles to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders protectively. He has always recovered from the Gate faster than I do.
As I fight nausea, I look around. The wide plaza is busy—hovertransports idle as Citizens climb in and out, laughing and talking to each other. I’m always surprised by the loudness of Citizens, the brightness they seem to inhabit. I see the curious looks some of them send toward us, and I force myself to straighten, flicking my hair over my shoulder. A wave of vertigo makes me grit my teeth and swallow hard.
“The address is in the maptable,” Berg is saying, already adjusting his shirt, and looking away. I can feel his vibrating tension. “I have to report to the University.”
I smile, hoping he doesn’t see fear in my eyes. I’ve never been alone in the City. “Go. I’ll meet you here. You’ll arrange a hovertransport to take us home?”
He nods, leans down and drops a quick kiss on my cheek before wheeling and slipping between two passing Citizens. I watch until he disappears around the corner of a building and I can’t see him anymore.
I take a deep breath and adjust the bag hanging across my chest. I glance at the maptable before I walk forward.
“Sabah?”
Hearing my name in the City makes every nerve in my body freeze, instinct demanding I run. Adrenaline pounds through me and I force myself not to bolt.
I twist, looking at the Citizen. He’s older than I am—a few years older than the Mistress even. Black hair sprinkled with silvery gray, a neatly tailored suit, gray eyes, a large black ring—I note them all as I study him. His smile is the most disconcerting thing about him. It is bland, benign—so false it sets my teeth on edge.
“My name is Wrenfel Lark. Your Mistress was an old friend of mine, before she was Exiled. Asked if I’d mind showing you around Mlena.”
“You know the Mistress?” I demand, stunned. He is wealthy, from th
e look of his clothes. And the other Citizens skirt him, giving him space—powerful, then. How does she know someone like him?
He comes forward and peers at my maptable before turning his smile on me. It makes my stomach turn. “This isn’t far. Come along.”
Wrenfel tucks my hand in the crook of his arm and leads me through the busy City streets. I steal furtive looks around, curious as to the life they lead.
A couple is sitting outside, ignoring each other as they sip drinks that smell decadent, even from where I am. The next shop over is filled with shimmering necklaces and bracelets, and two girls my age are giggling outside the window. Each shop we pass is different—a bakery with a window filled with impossibly elaborate confections, a tiny dark store that blares noise when the door is open, a bookstore, clothes, so many eateries with different foods that I quickly lose track. I pause at a turn, overwhelmed and Wrenfel offers me a sympathetic smile. “It’s a bit much, hmm?”
“Is this what Citizens do all day?” I ask. He looks at me, brow furrowed, and I gesture at the busy streets and shops. “Nothing?”
Wrenfel laughs, a surprisingly deep laugh, and shakes his head. “No. Most Citizens have occupations assigned when they are Insured. But it is a Nameday.”
It is my turn to be confused, and his smile turns indulgent as he steers me down the street. “Chairman Malik of the First Commission,” he explains. The name registers slowly and he laughs, “I thought she taught you the histories?”
I bristle, snap, “Mistress has never neglected our education.”
Wrenfel doesn’t respond, merely smiles that infuriating smile and opens the door to a small shop.
It’s bright and open in the pharmed. Images of a celebration scroll across a screen hanging in one corner, a girl sits on a bench, chewing her thumbnail as her foot bounces nervously.
Wrenfel pauses, “Do you know what you need, my dear?” I nod and he smiles again. “I shall wait here, then.”
The Citizen sitting behind a long counter smiles politely as I approach. “What can I do for you?” she asks, straightening.
Edge of the Falls (After the Fall) Page 5