“Hey, Speaker, so what can you tell us about your people? We’re not exactly well versed in Adamite culture. Babel only had so much to pass on to us.”
He smiles at me. “Your first lesson will be easy. We are not called Adamites.”
I stare at him for a second. “But that’s—”
“What Babel has always told you.” He nods knowingly. “It is an odd habit of theirs. Naming what already has a name. We have overlooked it for decades, but if you truly want to know us, then we should begin with a proper foundation. Our people are known as the Imago.”
Imago. It’s not hard to link the name back to Magnia and Magness. It’s a strong-sounding name, and a long look at Speaker has me feeling it’s a far better fit. It doesn’t surprise me that Babel’s out here playing the role of colonizer, slapping labels on the originals and pretending they created it all in the first place. It’s pretty standard procedure for folks like them.
“I like that. The Imago.” I trace back through our grand introductions, searching for another topic. “And you’re from the Second Ring, right?”
He smiles politely. “Yes, Emmett.”
“Is where you’re from important? You all said it in your introductions.”
“Yes. I live on the Second Ring. It identifies me to other Imago and to you. It is a way of showing how I am esteemed by my people.”
I nod. “So the Second Ring is good?”
Speaker’s brown eyes narrow playfully. “It is better than the Third.”
“But worse than the First,” Jaime guesses. “And there are seven total rings.”
“The farther out, the lower the status?” I ask.
“For the most part,” Speaker answers. “The outer rings usually have less esteem than the inner rings, with the Seventh as an exception. It borders the continents and acts as a barrier against the dangers of our world. Those who live on the Seventh are often warriors of great standing. Some believe their status is above the Second and below the First, but it’s not a universally accepted view.”
On the ship, we studied maps and landscapes and fuzzy satellite photographs, but every word from Speaker is a new lesson on the Adamite—no, the Imago—people. Babel didn’t teach us about a ranking system, or a ring in Sevenset dedicated to the military. Either they didn’t know or they didn’t want us to know. I can’t help imagining my neighborhood in Detroit as the Sixth Ring with a little bit of the Seventh thrown in. We might be the lowest of the low, but we’re fighters too. Always have been.
I find myself eyeing the nyxian bull’s-eye grafted in a spiral around Speaker’s eye.
“I noticed your markings,” I say, gesturing to them. “What are they?”
His fingers trace over the spot idly, like he’s forgotten it’s there. “We have them implanted at birth. They are a reminder of all who have come before us.”
A thousand questions come to mind, but I don’t ask any of them. He says the words with such respect that I feel it’d be rude to ask more, like interviewing someone at a funeral. Instead I lean back and watch clouds blot out the sun.
Magnia. It’s a beautiful world. I don’t have to close my eyes for it to feel a little like home, a little like Earth. We drive in silence for a while before Speaker points west. The trees at the edge of the forest shake and bend. I can just make out flashes of bronze moving from branch to branch. “Clippers, right?” I ask. “We saw a pack of them last night.”
“They are one of a select number of remaining pack species in our world.”
Azima perks up at that. “Strange. Most of the animals in our world work in packs.”
“Our scientists think once it was so,” Speaker admits. “The theory is that originally there was only a single moon in the sky. Fossil records show that pack species dominated that era, but the creation of our second moon changed how those systems functioned.”
The words scientist and theory drum through me. Listening to Speaker is forcing me to dismiss the image Babel gave us of them. I always pictured a tribe of wanderers, powerful and primitive people. I expected strange religions or bizarre clothing. Speaker is offering us a glimpse of more.
“The moons?” Azima asks curiously. “The moons changed the animals?”
Speaker gestures up. Overnight, both moons have shifted again.
“Glacius and Magness provide a great deal of light. Their frantic dance with our world almost guarantees the light of one, if not both, at all times.” His eyes linger for a long time on the faded outlines of each moon. “Their constant attention encouraged changes.”
“Evolution,” Jaime says from the other side of the truck. “Animals had to adapt.”
Speaker nods now. “More light meant more camouflage and poison among the smallest creatures, heightened senses and strength among the largest. Inevitably, creatures were forced into relationships. If they work together over a number of generations, we call them forged.”
“The eradakan,” I say, thinking now. “It had two sets of eyes.”
“Because it is two separate creatures,” Speaker answers. It’s clear he’s thinking hard about how to phrase what he wants to say next. “Nature has forced two skill sets to work in harmony. Often, the change happens when a greater enemy enters their territory. The two work together so that they might survive.”
“Symbiotic relationships,” Jaime says thoughtfully. “That’s kind of cool.”
“The erada have notoriously vulnerable stomachs,” Speaker explains. “Once, they were easy to kill with a well-aimed spear. Their bond with the akana offered a new protection. The body of an akana is scaled, but it’s also slow. The erada offers speed and flight. The akana offers defense. Together, the two have a better chance at survival.”
Jaime shakes his head. “Except when a century comes hunting.”
Speaker’s eyes widen. “You saw a century?”
We all nod, and he’s so shocked that he actually covers his mouth. I can see the nyxian implant around his eye quivering with movement. “You are lucky to be alive.”
“It was huge,” I say. “What two animals make a century?”
He shakes his head. “Not two. One. A prime.”
The word sends goose bumps down my arm. “Prime?”
“There are twenty-three prime species. Predators that are dangerous enough to survive on their own. They rely on nothing but their own power, or speed, or ingenuity. They are the most dangerous creatures that exist in our world. Scientists have tracked their movements as often as possible. It’s better for our people to simply avoid their migratory patterns.”
“Great,” Jaime says. “Glad we found one on our first night.”
Speaker smiles. “Fortunately, there are only two prime species in all of Grimgarden.”
I nod. “What’s the other one?”
“We call ourselves the Imago.”
We all stare for a second, and then Speaker throws back his head with wild laughter. It’s so untamed and unexpected that we all laugh with him as our truck thunders over the hills.
Our first dig site is nestled in the southern corner of another sprawling plain. On the scouter map, it looks like a little claw dug into the underbelly of a forest that grows wider as it moves west. The ping on our map emits from a silver capsule that’s plunged into the ground just outside the mining site. The chrome top of the buried device sits perfectly flush with the earth. There are a series of unmarked buttons and a glowing green dot to indicate the deposit on our radar.
Speaker watches with fascination as the survey process begins. A dark cloud of drones sweeps out from beneath the truck, scanning the terrain all around us. As they work, digital imaging etches itself onto the captain’s screen. Morning eyes the layout carefully, marking gas pockets and alternative routes into the heart of the mine. As I watch her work, I can tell that talking to Anton has lifted her spirits. Maybe
they’ve got a plan brewing.
“Okay,” Morning announces, “I’ll run the show from the truck. When we get nyxia on the surface, I’ll show everyone how we manipulate it for crating. Let’s split up tasks.”
Azima raises a hand. “I helped with the conveyor shaft.”
Morning nods. “Anton will go with you. Follow his lead: we always set up two shafts. It’s tricky, but if we do it right, we drain the mine twice as fast.”
She glances between Jaime and me. “What about you two?”
We both answer. “Jackjack.”
Morning considers us. “I’d rather not have you in the drill right now, Jaime. Let’s get that wound healed up first. You’ll help manipulate the product in preparation for shipment. Emmett, you’re on as the jackjack for now. Pull your weight or I’ll bench you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Damn, Captain.”
“Captain is right,” she says, smiling. “Let’s pit this peach.”
It takes about five minutes to get the drill set up, two minutes to climb inside, and one more minute for my world to be reduced to jaw-jarring vibration. Voices squawk over the comm, but I’m too focused on the descent. Two hundred meters down into darkness. The drill tip bites into stone, spitting smoke and gutting a path to our collection point.
On my monitor, Anton and Azima’s progress on the conveyor shaft is marked by a thin, diagonal streak of blue. Morning buzzes directives, but right now my only job is to dive and hold tight as my hands burn and blister, even with the protective gloves on. Gas pockets dance on the screen as we disturb the nyxian deposit. I realize it’s probably never been touched before.
It used to take Longwei an hour to dive this far. Now, I realize why. When his hands started to hurt, he would let go of the grips. Let go and the drill keeps spinning, but it doesn’t keep diving. In this, at least, I’m stronger than him.
I hit my depth and Morning retracts the drill. The drill tracks with the weighted supports on the surface, gliding back up through the initial carnage of my dive. When I’m back up top, I pop the hatch so cool air can rush in. There’s still too much heat flooding up from the hole for it to make much of a difference, though. Morning stands by the captain’s console and flashes me a thumbs-up. Speaker stands beside her, watching everything curiously. About ten minutes later I hear her voice pipe through the comm.
“Shafts are ready. You’re on again, Emmett.”
I slip back into the cockpit. A second later, the two side drills extend. One drill had the world rattling. Two feels like earthquakes inside earthquakes. I adjust my grips on the silver joysticks, and metal whirrs as my chair leans back, my legs extending. Silver foot panels blink with light, and I punch my feet against them. Darkness devours the windows as I reach my first depth. The drills hiss and catch on the nyxian walls, rag-dolling me until they find a balance.
Nyxia shatters, tumbling down the first shaft and into the collection area. The pulses light up, and I strike into the heart of the rock. I can’t help smiling because this still feels like a video game that I’m pretty damn good at. My steady work keeps nyxia raining down in constant streams. The drill is fifty meters deep when the screen flashes its first warning. Red circles churn along the edges of my tunnel.
Gas pockets.
“See that, Morning?” I ask.
“You’re fine,” she says. “Keep both drills rolling.”
I miss a few pulses as I stare at the red discoloration. I only blew up twice in simulations, but one time will do the trick in real life. “Who are you going to boss around if I explode?”
“Someone else, I guess,” she says, and I can almost see the smirk. “Just trust me.”
I do trust her. The drill digs down. Ten meters. Five meters. I give the wall right above it a good pulse, grit my teeth as rock rains, and watch the red blotches flutter on my screen. I brace myself, but the gas retreats, finding deeper spaces between the stones. I let out a ragged breath and keep things moving. Morning’s laugh sounds in my ear.
“You really think I’m bossy?”
“Oh, the worst,” I say, smiling.
Anton adds, “I’ve always seen you as a female version of Napoleon.”
“Too tall,” Jaime disagrees.
Morning actually groans. “Not to mention he was a tyrant, Anton! At least make me a hero from Mexican history, like one of the Adelitas or something.”
“She should be compared to a queen,” Azima pipes in. “Like Cleopatra.”
“Actually, I’d take Cleopatra,” Morning replies. Everyone laughs at that.
Three hours later, I’m bone-tired, but the mine’s done. I admire the rows and rows of manipulated nyxia stacked in the truck bed. I don’t even want to guess how many millions of dollars it translates into. My boots are puddled with sweat, and my hands are hating me. Morning calls us all out to clean up and find a place to go for a swim.
She pulls aside Speaker first, though. “Are we okay to wash up? Or is it too dangerous?”
“We prepared for your coming,” Speaker replies. “Hunting parties were sent through the areas between your established bases. We thinned out the more dangerous species, or at least forced their migratory patterns elsewhere.”
“So it’s safe?” Morning asks.
“Safe enough,” Speaker replies. “The nearest creek isn’t large enough for our most dangerous breeds, either. I believe you will be fine.”
Morning pings the creek in question and we all head out. It’s a brave new world, but the boys head over one hill as the girls go down another. Speaker stands awkwardly back by the truck. The Imago probably didn’t give him any protocol for how to handle bath time.
We strip down to underwear and splash around a creek that’s barely knee-high. I’ve never felt anything so good in my life. Long after I’ve washed the grime from my face and hands, I lie belly up, staring at clouds that remind me so much of home it hurts.
Anton gargles water and sprays it out like a fountain statue. Jaime sits off to one side, hair slicked back and pale shoulders hunched. The scene looks so normal, so human. It’s almost enough to forget that each of us was asked to kill someone just forty-eight hours ago.
One look at Jaime or Anton is enough to see the truth. Babel’s betrayal isn’t done digging under our skin. Maybe it’s a good thing, I think. Maybe resistance will be easier. Babel’s shown us too many of their cards to pretend they’re something else now.
Jaime runs a hand over the water. We’ve been quiet for a while, but I can tell he’s working up the courage to say something. This is the first time I’ve really looked at him since landing. It’s easy to forget how close he was to dying.
He hasn’t forgotten. “I hate them,” he finally says. “I really hate them.”
I exchange a glance with Anton. “Yeah,” I answer. “Me too.”
Anton just leans back in the water and points a middle finger skyward. Jaime squints up through the clouds like he can actually see the station orbiting. Anger fills his voice.
“It’s not fair. They set the rules and I followed the rules and I won. That should have been the end of it. It wasn’t fair that they put Brett in the room with me and…” As he talks, his hands ball into fists. “I haven’t been able to sleep. They broke their promise and made me a murderer. None of it is fair. And now? I’m going to do everything I can to bury them.”
He glances back at us nervously, like maybe he sounds extreme. But Anton stands up and slaps Jaime’s bare shoulder with affection. “I was worried before,” he says. “I thought you were just another broken boy we needed to look after. But you’re not. You’re a weapon. Babel put you through the fire and you survived. They shouldn’t have made us this way. They’ll regret how sharp we are now that we’re aimed at them.”
Anton offers a hand to help Jaime up. The three of us walk back to the truck, and Anton’s words echo an
d build, louder and louder, until they’re in my chest like a song.
We’re weapons. They made us this way.
And we’re coming for them.
Morning keeps us moving. We pack up the dig site, load our truck back up, and leave behind a crater. Looking down into the gaping cavern, I feel a little sick to my stomach. We’ve been on the Imago’s planet for twenty-four hours and we’re already shredding it.
But this is our plan. We’re going to go from one site to the next, gathering enough nyxia to send back to Babel as we wait out their next move. It feels wrong, really, to just accept their next betrayal. There’s just not much we can do besides play nice until we figure out our options.
I glance back at the loaded stacks of nyxia and remember Defoe’s presentation at our first meeting. Each of those black dots is worth somewhere in the realm of two billion dollars. Each mine. Worth billions. The idea of that much money is disorienting.
We move on to the second mine, and it’s a nightmare.
Arrival time gives us about three hours to work. Gas pockets are shifting so much beneath the surface, though, that the computer system can’t even find a good origin point. Morning maps out the movements for thirty minutes before picking a proper setup.
One of the conveyor tunnels collapses on our first attempt, so Anton and Azima end up moving the rover to the opposite side and starting over. There’s an hour’s worth of delays as we wait for the underground shifting of gas to stop. Time feels like it’s moving slower than the sweat on my visor. Speaker noted our efficiency on the first mine. I wonder if he’s monitoring our failures during the second.
“All right,” Morning calls. “You’re clear for now, Emmett. I’m gonna go down the conveyor shaft to fix a jammed line. Jaime’s got eyes on you, all right?”
“Got it,” I say, firing the drill up again. We’ve only sheared away three or four meters from the main shaft. I haven’t built a rhythm at all today, so I miss pulses and feel groggy the deeper I go. Jaime calls out another pressure shift, and I kill the drill, frustrated and sweating. I’m about to vent my frustrations when an explosion tears through the underground.
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