by Jenny Moyer
“Not sleeping,” Reeves murmurs.
Dram’s arm around me tightens.
“These people have been fighting,” Reeves says. He stares into the cage across from us. A man paces the confines, his face a collage of bruises. His sleeve is cut away to reveal the Codev glowing beneath his skin. A Gem.
“There’s no physic,” I say, pointing to a woman who sits in her cell, bleeding from a gash on her head. I pat down the pockets of my white suit, checking every pouch, but there’s no serum, just a few days’ worth of nutri-pacs in orange foil. And a knife. I hold it up, my eyes wide.
“What exactly are they expecting us to mine with this?” Dram holds up his knife.
“Dusters,” Reeves says softly. “A forfeit once told me about this, but I didn’t believe him.
“What are you talking about?” Dram asks.
“He said the people of Cordon Two are so desperate to mine flash dust, they’ll make it themselves if they have to.”
“You’re saying they kill people?” I feel like I just grabbed the bars again.
Reeves tucks his knife against his palm. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
We hover beside an empty metal arm. Our cell lowers toward the ground with a mechanical whine.
“It’s dropping us! Dram—lift me up, we need to get to the hover.”
A solid sheet of metal forms the roof of our cage. He lifts me, and I hammer at it, but it doesn’t give. I wedge my knife around the edges—
* * *
I wake up in Dram’s arms. My body aches as if I’ve fallen from a climb.
“She’s back with us,” Reeves says.
Dram smooths my hair away from my face. “I suppose you’re not the first one to try escaping through the roof.”
“The collar again?” My jaw is starting to unclench.
“I think you stuck your knife into a power conductor,” he says. “Fire, Rye, I thought you’d—” He sighs. “No more escape attempts. Not without a plan.”
“Okay.” My lips feel numb, like I’ve been sucking on water posey. “How’s our new home?”
“Cozy.”
I shield my eyes from the glare of the flash curtain and take in our surroundings. No Gems greet us. No fences mark our boundaries. No tents wave in the wind offering a frail promise of shelter.
“They don’t expect us to survive,” I whisper.
“No,” Reeves says. He sits in the middle of the cage, his arms wrapped around his knees. The look in his eyes tells me he’s far away in his mind.
“Why would they do that?” My voice rises, shrill and desperate. “If they know we’re likely to die, why wouldn’t they intervene? They’re wasting Subpars…”
Dram and Reeves both watch me, silently waiting for me to answer my own question.
Congress doesn’t intend for us to survive. We are more useful to them as flash dust. My eyes scan the cordon, seeing it all from a new perspective. This isn’t a prison camp. It’s a factory. A flash-dust-making factory.
“What is that stone building with the smoke coming out of it?”
“Flash incinerator,” Reeves says. “It captures the energy and radiation of the curtain and funnels it into a chamber for … well…”
“How convenient,” Dram mutters. “We don’t even have to go all the way to the curtain to be turned into flash dust.”
My eyes fill with tears. Every curse Graham ever taught me surges to my lips, but the only words I manage are—
“Not like this. After everything—” I have to swallow the lump in my throat.
Dram wraps me in his arms, but he doesn’t say anything. There is no room in this cage for lies.
“Get ready,” Reeves says softly. “It’s time.”
“How do you know?”
“Look at them.”
I peer through the bars, at the rows of cages. People gather at the doors, as if responding to a silent summons.
“Come,” Reeves says, walking to the cage door. “I will show you how a forfeit survives.” His voice sounds different, like his mouth is speaking, but the words come from someplace far away.
Dram clasps my hand, and we stand.
Around us, the people—those still alive—begin to stir. I hear the rattle of the metal cages beneath their feet.
“Be sure to take their nutri-pacs before you flash them,” Reeves says.
“I’m not killing anyone!”
“Shh,” Dram says. “Think of the tunnels. Let’s try not to attract too much attention.”
“Fine,” I hiss. “But I’m not going to kill someone just so I can live!”
“You will.” Reeves stares out toward the curtain.
“Run for the perimeter,” Dram says. “Let’s see if we can cross into Cordon One. That’s where the map showed a way out.” He looks toward the door. “Reeves? You with us?”
Reeves nods, but he’s got his fist clenched around his knife.
There’s no buzzer or bell. No warning at all when the cage doors open. Just the bloodlust in the eyes of desperate, broken people—and all of it focused on us, replacement prisoners with fresh rations in their pockets and no experience fighting to the death.
“Go!” Reeves shoves me through the cage door, and I hit the sand, sprinting toward the cordon boundary for all I’m worth.
“They’re coming for us!” Dram keeps pace at my side, even though I know he’s faster. They’re both faster than me. I’m small, which has served me well in the tunnels, but in a life-or-death sprint, those with long legs have the advantage.
I want to tell him to push on, but my breath already heaves from my chest, and it’s everything I can do to keep my legs pumping faster than they ever have before. Besides, Dram would no more leave me than I would him. Whatever happens, we’re in it together. I try to take comfort in the thought, and then I have no energy for any thought at all, save one.
Run.
A woman’s scream pierces the air, followed by a thud and grunting, like several people are fighting over her. I think of the flash vultures scrabbling over the one I tore the wings off of in Cordon Four.
The Congress has turned these people into vultures.
We near the perimeter.
“There’s no fence,” Reeves calls, his breath sawing from his lungs. “No walls.”
I squint, trying to identify the strange poles spaced apart along the edge of the cordon. My heart clenches. “Reeves! Stop!”
He’s just a few meters from the poles and looks back over his shoulder.
“Collar!” It’s the only word I can manage. He jogs toward the perimeter, but cautiously now. A man with a scraggly beard leaps for him. Reeves catches the man and uses the momentum to throw him toward the poles. Lights in the pole turn red just as the man’s collar lets off a soft chime. His scream cuts off as his body jolts like an invisible beast is thrashing it in its jaw. He collapses to the ground, his eyes wide and unseeing.
I stagger to a stop. There is no escape here.
We have to go back.
I throw a glance over my shoulder. A man lunges for me, and I scream. His hand tangles in my hair, and we tumble to the ground.
“Rye!” Dram dives at the man, hauls him off me with one arm around his neck.
Men and women fall on us like flash bats, gripping any part of us they can get hold of.
“Get back!” I shout, lashing out with my knife. I force my way to my feet.
Dram’s back presses against mine, and I realize we’ve taken the same stance we do in the tunnels. I search the faces of the people circling us, hoping to find hesitation, anything that shows a remnant of humanity.
“Please!” I cry. “I’ll give you my rations—just leave us alone!” I rip my nutri-pacs from my pocket and hold them up.
“No, Rye!”
“I’d rather starve to death than be torn apart!”
Another man darts toward Reeves, and a moment later I hear a shout, a chime, and a strangled cry.
“Cease!” a man calls
. The mob stills. They don’t look at the man, but their eyes lower.
“I see you’ve met my crew,” he says with a jovial smile. “You may call me King.”
Reeves snorts. “How ’bout I call you the guy whose ass I’m about to throw against this fence?”
King’s smile stays in place, but his eyes shift to one of his men. A second later, three men fall on Reeves.
He’s stronger than his gaunt attackers, but one of them clenches a rock in his fist—not a rock, I realize, but some sort of bone. Dram tenses like a coil beside me, but a dozen maniacs with knives press in around us. If we intervene, we’re dead. They have sheer numbers on their side.
“Enough.” King’s simple command works like a leash, reeling in the man with the bone. He wipes the bloody weapon on his suit and shoves Reeves to his knees before the leader.
“You will call me King,” he demands softly.
Reeves lifts his head, and I cringe. He wears new wounds over the ones the Striders gave him. He spits blood onto the sand.
Metal flashes, and King presses the point of a knife to his throat. “Say it.”
“Reeves,” I murmur, tears filling my eyes. “Please.” I understand his defiance. Part of me wants to spit on the ground too. But Lenore didn’t die down six so we could throw our lives away like this.
His brown eyes find mine. “King,” he says.
King smiles. “Wise choice.” He sheathes his blade. “Two strong men…” He walks around Reeves and Dram, sizing them up as if he’s choosing a dog for a fight. “Yes, you’d be a nice addition to my crew.” He turns to me. “And who do we have here?” He examines me like his eyes are hands. “Hmm,” he murmurs. “Bruised, but still pretty. How badly do you want to live?” He reaches toward me, and I stiffen. “Not going to hurt you.” He grins. “Not today, anyway.” He catches a drop of my sweat with his finger.
“Now I’ll show you why I’m king of the castle.” He closes his hands around the bead of sweat and slowly opens them, revealing a handful of water.
“You can conjure?”
“Guilty,” he says. He lifts his hands to me, and I turn my head. “Suit yourself.” He drinks the water and sighs gustily. “It’s only your first day. Soon enough, you’ll be drinking out of my hands.” He laughs and lifts his hand to the bone guy and his minions. “Let them keep their kills. It’s good for them to get a taste of Sanctuary.”
Bone Guy drops the body he was hauling. His face falls like he’s just been denied a meal. Maybe he was.
“You’ll find that Cordon Two has but one place of safety,” King says. “Since there’s no other authority here, it falls to me to point it out.” He smiles again, like he’s hosting a party and pointing us toward refreshments. “See the smoke? Dust the bodies there, and something quite wonderful happens. Sanctuary is a rare treat around here, but it comes at a price.
“I’ll give you that time to consider. You’re either with me or against me.” His eyes slip down my body, revealing a hunger that has nothing to do with the nutri-pacs clutched in my fist. Dram shifts his weight as King’s gaze lingers, until I sense he might actually take his chances with the mob.
King gives me a wolfish grin. “I do hope you choose ‘with me.’” He strides away, and his crew falls into step behind him.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
My hands shake as I stuff my packets back in my pockets.
“Rye—” Dram reaches for me.
“Don’t—” I step back. “Don’t touch me.” I’m considering a run at the electric barrier. At least death would be on my own terms.
Dram’s eyes narrow on my face. His gaze darts to the invisible fence and back, as if he’s judging how fast he can stop me. He walks toward me, his blue gaze locking with mine.
“Not going to touch you.” He holds his hands up. “Just this.” He tucks his finger beneath my collar and pulls.
“What are you doing?”
“Reminding you,” he whispers, pulling my pendants free. “We have survived worse than this. Worse than that bastard.”
“I’m tired of just surviving.” I choke the words out. My eyes fill. “What’s the point?”
His gaze hardens. “The point? The point’s the same as it’s always been. One foot in front of the other, till we get to the other side of that glenting thing!” He thrusts his arm toward the curtain, his eyes glassing with tears.
“Dram,” Reeves says, “help me with this body.”
“Coming.” His eyes hold mine a moment longer. Slowly, I nod. He turns toward Reeves. “Look away, Rye.” His voice strains under the weight of his burden. “You don’t need to see this.”
I stare at the cages, reflecting in the light of the flash curtain. Then I turn and walk to Dram.
“Yes, I do.” I don’t meet his eyes. I don’t say anything as I grasp the dead man’s arm and haul it around my shoulders.
We walk toward the smoking chimney of the incinerator hauling our first kill.
* * *
Beside the incinerator stands a familiar, glass-enclosed scale. No automated voice asks for our deposit. There’s just a dented button smeared with blood. We pour the dust from Reeves’s attackers inside. A green light illuminates with a soft chime and then the weight registers.
209.86 grams.
Numbers turn above the door of a small red house. It seems the only colors here are white and red. Sand and blood. Above the door hangs a sign.
SANCTUARY
The numbers click to a stop: 48 Hours. 0 Minutes.
Apparently, killing a person buys you one day of Sanctuary in Cordon Two.
We step inside the small enclosure, and the door seals shut behind us. A bolt clicks, and our collars chime. We are secure in our new cell.
Blood pounds in my head, like my heart won’t let it pass. I have never seen such a place. We step into a large room with halls on either side. Dram grasps his knife and jogs down both. He returns a moment later.
“No one else here,” he says. “Just bedrooms with bathrooms.”
Reeves doesn’t seem to notice his surroundings. He sinks to the floor and puts his head in his hands. Blood streaks his arms, but it’s not his.
I want to tell him we all have blood on our hands. I want to tell him that he was right.
“Leave him,” Dram whispers. He takes my hand and leads me to one of the rooms.
I realize I’m crying. Not crying, exactly. Keening. And I just can’t stop.
“What have we done, Dram?”
He guides me over to the shower and turns the water on. Steam lifts.
“Are you okay with me touching you, Rye?”
I nod, and my chin bumps the collar.
“Then let me help you.” He unbuckles the white belt that shows I’ve missed far too many rations. It drops to the floor. There are buckles at my wrists, and he unfastens them one at a time, then peels off my leather gloves.
“Hold on to me,” he says. He kneels and guides my hands to his shoulders, unbuckling my tight leather knee boots. There are so many buckles. It’s like Congress wants even our clothing to feel like shackles.
Strange sounds puff from my lips between my shattered breaths. It’s like I’m dying—or some part deep inside me is.
“That man is not going to lay a hand on you,” Dram says. “Ever.”
My hands tighten on his shoulders.
“Do you believe me?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Right now we are safe. Tonight, we will sleep. Tomorrow, we will come up with a plan.” He stands and turns me so my back is to him, then gently peels my suit down my shoulders. “Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
My glass pendants hang down my neck, a gentle weight against my skin. Dram takes my hand and guides me under the spray of water. It pours over me with comforting warmth. I let my tears fall down my skin and mix with the water.
“Dram?”
“Yes?”
“Will you hold me?”
; “I’m right here.” He holds my hand still. The water soaks through his sleeve.
“In here.”
His eyes snap to mine. “I don’t…”
“Please.” My eyes hold his. “I know what I’m asking.”
He sighs and lets go of my hand. Slowly, layer by layer, he drops his clothes beside mine. I don’t look away. Water cascades over his shoulders as he steps under the spray and tucks me in his arms.
I cry against his chest, and he runs his hands over my hair. After a time, my breath finds a normal rhythm. The warmth reaches me, finally penetrating the frozen places where terror has taken root. I feel like maybe I can be clean again.
“Those men would have killed us,” he says softly.
“I know.”
“We may have to do it again.”
“I know.”
“I love you, Orion.”
I smile through my tears. “I know.” I catch his face between my hands and show him, the best way I know how.
We stay until the water turns cold, and then we wrap each other in towels and kisses and touches even softer than the blankets on the bed.
“Rye…” He catches my arms and gently pulls away. He doesn’t say the words, but I read the concern in his soft blue gaze.
“You promised me sanctuary,” I whisper.
It’s like we’re down nine and something’s stolen his breath. I reach for him, ready to give him mine again.
He leans up, catching my mouth with his. I fall into his arms, where there is warmth and safety and love enough to chase away the dark. The scars, the loss, the imprisonment—it all melts away in the heat of Dram’s touch. Our passion is a forge, and in its depths I am transformed into something beautiful.
His pendants brush my chest. I imagine I am like that glass—a bit of dust, altered by fire. But I am not fragile. If I were, the cordons would already have broken me.
Maybe I’m not like glass, after all. Maybe I’m the point of an axe, strong enough to shatter cirium.
TWENTY-ONE
0 grams flash dust
THERE’S A TIMER above the door. It counts down to the moment when the bolt will slide free and our collars will reactivate.