Flashtide

by Jenny Moyer

  She nods, a knowing look in her eyes.

  “Were you born with it?” I ask. “Your Codev?”

  “It illuminates when we turn sixteen,” she says, “when we’re commissioned for service.”

  “Do you choose to serve?”

  “It was chosen for us,” she answers. “The modifications are costly. Parents sign a deed of service on behalf of their altered embryo. Those who survive owe a debt to Ordinance, payable upon their sixteenth year.”

  “For how long?”

  “It depends upon the debt.” She traces the line of code. I think of my Radband, with its biotech that resembles a depth gauge, difficult to remove without damaging vital arteries.

  “Can a Codev be removed?” I ask.

  “Why would I want it removed?” Her violet eyes widen, and I have the random thought that if I could choose genetically modified eye color, I’d pick exactly that hue. Then I wonder how many extra years of service it’s costing her. Irises that don’t need the protection of eyeshields.

  “What happens to Gems who refuse to serve?” Dram asks.

  “The Unaccounted,” she says. For the first time, there’s a crack in her doll’s expression. “If caught, they are sent to Cordon Two.”

  Cordon Two. The prison cordon.

  Dram tucks me against his side, like he senses the dark turn my thoughts have taken. “Eat,” he says hoarsely, handing me a nutri-pac. I finish it off, but my stomach feels empty. I feel empty everywhere. Is there a way out of this life for any of us? Even the Gems are caught in the Congress’s trap.

  The flashtide descends, and the Gems brace themselves more tightly around us. To protect us, but also to hold us back. I can feel myself leaning toward those rivulets of color, as if they offer comfort. I want, need, yearn to walk out into the cordon and feel them spiral over me, down, down—

  “I’ve got you,” a Gem says to me. And I see that she’s clutching my hands, keeping me from taking that senseless walk. Two Gems hold onto Dram.

  “Don’t listen to its lies,” GM16 says.

  “Does it not … call to you?” I ask.

  “It does,” she answers, “but we have a stronger ability to resist it.”

  The Gems close in until we’re surrounded so close, I no longer feel the effects of the flashtide. They take turns, resting and sheltering. The man who gave me water—the one with the smile—has burns on his arms. He’s bleeding, and it’s not luminous or blue or beautiful. It’s just blood, same as mine.

  Shame settles over me—for the ways I resented them before. The cavers work the tunnels to earn enough Rays to get free. Gems work the cordons to repay debts and get free. But at least in the outposts Subpars had homes and community.

  This … this isn’t living. Being alive is not the same thing as living.

  “Megan?” I call softly. She’s staring at something, unseeing. I repeat the name that is not her name, and she looks over. A trace of sadness lingers in her violet eyes. “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Twenty.”

  “How many more years do you have here?”

  Her perfect features shift. “Ten.”

  Dram murmurs a curse. I can only stare and wonder if her genetically enhanced body can endure that much exposure. That’s assuming she survives the flash vultures and emberflies.

  “My parents wanted to give me a chance,” she says, as if that excuses her horrifying sentence here. “My sister—a Natural—died. Things in Ordinance are—” She breaks off, like there aren’t Subpar words for what’s happening there. “We don’t have a shield.”

  I try to imagine what I’d be like if I’d been born a Gem in Ordinance, commissioned and taken from my family. And I know, with a return of that hollow feeling …

  I would not wear my Codev like a badge; I’d have tried to cut the brand out of my arm and taken my chances on the run. Like Aisla.

  I’d be an Unaccounted.

  You are more than what they say you are, I want to tell her. “I like the name you chose for yourself,” I say instead.

  We are from two worlds, she and I. Even our biology is different. But we are more the same than I ever realized.

  * * *

  The pseudo-sky lightens, the clouds of flashfall rimmed with a buttery glow I can almost pretend is sunlight.

  “Flash me, we’re still alive,” Dram murmurs. He groans as he stretches, like he’s ninety instead of nineteen. Roran stirs, and the Gems surrounding us move away.

  Dram stands and faces the fence, the outbuildings, and barracks we were exiled from last night. “The noncompliants are still alive!” he shouts.

  Roran laughs, and so do most of the Gems.

  Dram walks past us. “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Since we’re barred from the privies, I’m going to take a noncompliant piss on the corral tower.” He continues on his way, my laughter following him.

  I take care of business in less dramatic fashion and return to find the Gems passing around rations. I’ve finally met people who make better thieves than Dram.

  He returns singing, a silly, bawdy song that Graham loved. His voice is pitchy, his throat still raw from our encounter with the curtain. I’ve never heard anything sweeter. He sweeps me into an outpost dance. There’s no music and no ale, but I feel like I did on those Friday nights. Free.

  He turns me under his arm, and we laugh. We dance well together. Reading each other’s body language down the tunnels has given us an innate sense of each other. I catch the sides of his head and bring him down to me. He smiles wider, still singing.

  “I love you,” I say. He stops singing, and his steps falter.

  The noncompliants are still alive, I think, as his lips collide with mine.

  The buzzer sounds.

  Our barrier of Gems step away, some of them bearing burns, a few coughing from sand and ash. They meet up with their squads to begin another day of collecting flash dust. We follow, shuffling toward the turnstiles.

  SIXTEEN

  7.2 km from flash curtain

  THEY COME FOR us as we stand in the pricking tent, awaiting our rationed dose. Enough Striders enter that their suits give a warning of their approach. Their suits get louder as they near us, a resonant whine, like hovercraft engines powering up. The hairs on my arms raise.

  “Don’t say anything,” Dram warns beneath his breath.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, just in case. My last remnants of self-control burned up like cordon sand hours ago. The injustice of the Overburden is more than I can bear. I want to fight someone who deserves my anger. Not a cordon creature, but a person who takes up arms to defend what the Congress is doing here. Weary as I am, another part of me is waking up, and it wants to go toe-to-toe with a Strider.

  Dram’s boot nudges mine. “We’re in trouble enough, Rye,” he says softly. “Don’t make it worse.” The Miners and Dodgers around us seem to dissipate, until only Dram and I stand before the med table, sleeves still shoved up to our elbows.

  “Dose them,” the lead Strider commands the tech. I barely register the needle, but the effects of the compound restore me like a pair of strong hands lifting me up off the ground. Maybe I can reclaim a sense of self-preservation. I roll my sleeve back down, and Dram’s words replay in my mind. We’re in trouble enough, Rye. Still, I catch myself looking into the face of each of the five men. I can’t seem to lower my gaze.

  Five soldiers for two unarmed Subpars.

  “Restrain her,” the Strider orders, shoving a pair of wrist locks into Dram’s hand. This is how they demoralize us in the Overburden; when we step out of line, they force us to be the source of each other’s suffering.

  “No,” Dram says.

  “Restrain her yourself, or I’ll have Wellsey do it.” The Strider nods at the soldier beside him. “I promise he won’t be as gentle.”

  “Flash me,” Dram mutters, unfastening the restraints. I lift my wrists, but the Strider shakes his head.

  “Behind your back, Subpar.” />
  I comply, because Wellsey looks eager to test the shock value of his suit. And because I sense a fight brewing inside Dram. I kick his boot like he did mine moments ago. He slides the wristbands into place and locks them.

  “Tighter,” the Strider commands.

  “It’s already digging into her Radband,” Dram says. “Any tighter, and she’ll—”

  “I’m losing patience, Subpar.”

  Dram tightens the bands, and I force myself to keep a blank expression. Wellsey grins at me, like he knows exactly how badly the metal is biting my skin.

  “You should probably restrain me, too,” Dram mutters. “Before I punch him in the face.” He slides a glance at Wellsey.

  “Oh, we have a different plan for you, Berrends.”

  At the mention of his name—the one he shares in common with his father—the atmosphere changes. A sense of impending threat invades the space, like the particle-charged air just before flashtide.

  Another Strider enters. My stomach twists when he lifts his face shield. Nills. The Strider from our first day. The one who pulled his gun on Dram.

  “You interfered with a Brunt,” he says to Dram.

  Dram doesn’t answer. No one does. A few Dodgers cough nervously. The soldiers have sealed the tent entrance, corralled us all in.

  “Answer me, Dodger.”

  “There was an injured boy—”

  “A Brunt.”

  Dram stares daggers at the soldier. “He was in mortal danger.”

  “So you deserted your position.”

  “He saved a child,” I say, ignoring Dram’s warning glance.

  “So you witnessed this Dodger’s actions?” he asks me. A trap. My defense of Dram only confirmed his actions in the cordon. Nills turns back to Dram. “We have a system in place. Compliance is the only thing required of you.”

  “Compliance at what cost?” Dram asks, not bothering to shield his anger.

  “At what cost?” Nills echoes. “This cost.” He holds out his hand and another soldier sets a long metal object across his palm. An appendage. “This is yours now. The last owner doesn’t need it anymore.” He tosses it at Dram’s feet. Not just any appendage, but one that’s misshapen, the forked tines bent. My stomach hollows as I recognize the distinctly damaged replacement hand.

  Ice. Dram’s face is a block of ice, the features hard and cold, chiseled there by the same realization.

  “You’d better restrain me,” he says, his voice raw.

  “I have bullets to restrain you,” Nills answers. “And that’s only if you somehow survive the charge of my armor. Go ahead and attack. Your life is worth nothing now.”

  “He’s the son of Arrun Berrends,” I say. “He’s worth something to the Congress.”

  “I know exactly who he is, Subpar. That’s why I’m making this worse than it needs to be.” His lips twist in a sneer, but it’s the pain in his eyes that fills me with dread. “Arrun Berrends blew up a squad of Striders. One of them was my brother.” His words are a bomb, the blast ripping through every noncompliant person here.

  “On your knees,” he orders. Dram hesitates the space of two of my held breaths, then sinks to his knees.

  “Don’t,” he says under his breath. To me.

  My hands are fists, fingernails digging into my skin. I don’t know how I’ll fight unarmed, with my hands bound, but fear is driving away all rational thought.

  “Tag him,” Nills commands. A Strider steps forward and levels a tool at the base of Dram’s head. “Don’t worry,” he says. “This isn’t the part that kills you.”

  The Strider presses a triggering mechanism, and Dram hisses. I leap forward, and a Strider’s arm lifts in front of me, suit humming with energy. It might as well be an electric fence. He looks at me, brow raised. Maybe he’s heard stories about me, the crazy Scout from Outpost Five. A girl who might actually take a run at him.

  “Dram?” I call.

  “Still here, ore scout,” he answers, voice strained.

  I’ve felt the shock of Strider armor before, when I fled Outpost Five. Dram’s staring at me, hard.

  “Bring the child,” Nills orders.

  The Strider hesitates. “Greash wouldn’t approve—”

  “Greash isn’t here. Do it.”

  The Strider moves through the cluster of Brunts to where the boy sits propped against the side of the tent. He hauls him forward.

  “A demonstration of what it means to be a tagged Brunt,” Nills says. “You already know the tag is a beacon that draws the cordon creatures. But it also allows us to put down rebellion simply and effectively. We maintain order and preserve Protocol.” He sets a screencom in Dram’s hand. He points it at the boy, and the tech projects a string of code. “Press it.”

  “No.”

  The Strider aims his wrist at Dram, and a code illuminates over his screencom. “Detag him or I detag you.”

  “Stop this,” I murmur. I look at the soldier holding his arm in front of me. “You know this isn’t right.” His face is a mask of disbelief, but he doesn’t move.

  Reuder pushes his way forward. “Let the child go.”

  “You volunteering to take his place?” Nills asks.

  Reuder glances at the boy, the child he didn’t attempt to save in the cordon. “Yes,” he answers softly.

  Nills seems suddenly lost, but recovers his composure quickly. “Well, then. Take his place, Dodger.”

  Reuder helps the crying boy to his feet and steers him into a Brunt’s arms. Then he kneels across from Dram. A Strider tags him. The code above Dram’s device changes, the numbers arranging themselves in a different order. Reuder’s tag.

  “No,” Dram whispers.

  Reuter smiles ruefully. “Guess I’ve still got balls, after all.”

  “I won’t do this.” Dram’s voice shakes.

  “Your life or his,” Nills says. “You have five seconds, Berrends.” His finger hovers above his screencom. “Then I take all your choices away, permanently.”

  “Press it!” Reuder says. “Press it, or we’re both dead.”

  “No!”

  “You can help them. You can do something about this.”

  “I won’t—”

  “Give me back my soul, Subpar.”

  Dram’s chest rises and falls. His finger shifts over the screencom.

  “Soma,” Reuder whispers urgently. Brave one.

  “Soma,” Dram chokes, and presses the button. Reuder’s body seizes once and falls forward. Dram yells, clutching the man’s limp body. He tips his head back and shouts, the sound of a soul torn apart. Then I can’t see him at all, as tears flood my vision.

  “I’m a Delver with Fortune,” a woman calls, shoving her way into the tent. “What’s going on here?”

  “Cordon law,” Nills replies.

  She glances at the body slumped on the ground, Dram hunched beside it. “I need the girl. The Westfall scout.” She searches the group of Miners. “Where is she?”

  “Here,” I say. I want an excuse to use my voice, remind myself that I am really here. Alive. Because I think Dram is gone. He doesn’t even lift his head as the woman orders me unbound. “Where are you taking me?”

  “A Delver died today. Meredith’s hoping you have the skill to replace her. But in case you don’t, she’ll need an alternate. Name the next best Miner in your squad.”

  “Dram,” I answer, nodding to where he sits.

  She lifts a brow. “He’s not a Miner.”

  “He was. We were the best in Outpost Five. Fourth Rays.”

  “That boy is noncompliant. Name someone else.”

  “He’s the best choice—”

  “Are you also noncompliant?”

  “I’m wearing shackles in the Overburden. What do you think?”

  Her eyes widen, and she laughs. “It’s possible you’ll fit right in with the other Delvers. You have a chance to win Fortune, my dear. Now look at your squad and give me a name.”

  Win Fortune. I can’t think. I b
arely process her words. All I know is that Reuder’s body is being hauled away and Dram’s still kneeling there, like he detagged himself.

  “I’ll stay with my squad.”

  “I’m not giving you a choice, Subpar—”

  “Kara,” Dram says, without looking up. “Kara and Orion are the best Miners in this squad.”

  The woman smiles. “Thank you, Dodger.” Her gaze skips over the Miners clustered beside the tent wall. “Kara, come with me.”

  Kara steps from the line and follows her, but my feet are rooted to the ground.

  “Let’s go, Subpar.”

  “Are we coming back?”

  “No.”

  “Go.” This from Dram, who’s still not looking at me.

  “Dram—”

  He stands and turns the force of his glare on me. “I’m nothing now. Bait. Food for cordon rats. If you try to help me in the cordon, they’ll kill you. Or force me to do it!” His voice breaks, and he allows Striders to steer him toward the group of Brunts. “You have a chance to live. Take it! Glenting take it, Orion!”

  He turns his back on me, taking his new place beside the other Brunts as if he’s accepting defeat. I was angry before, but it was nothing compared to this, a match beside an inferno.

  “We have a deal.” My voice is steel, harder than cirium.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Scout.” Metal tines grasp my arm, and I look into Roran’s eyes. “I’ll protect him,” he says. “I won’t take my eyes off him. I’ll shoot anything that gets close.”

  My eyes fill with tears. “Who protects you?”

  “My strength comes from a place they can’t Temper,” he whispers. And I remember all the times Mere said that.

  “I believe it if you believe it,” I whisper.

  Roran nods. “Go win Fortune.”

  SEVENTEEN

  7.3 km from flash curtain

  “YOU MAY CALL me Val,” the woman says. “I oversee the Delvers.”

  We stand at the edge of a fissure, a crack in the ground that goes deeper than I can see without dropping a flare.

  “What is this place?”

  “The gorge,” Val answers. “It’s a test.”

  This “test” could easily fit the barracks within its opening. This isn’t like any of the tunnel entrances in Outpost Five.