Flashfall

by Jenny Moyer

  “You told us there are no Subpars in the city.”

  “I’ll have his Radband carefully removed. The Congress will find a place for him.”

  Dram will be safe. Free.

  “And me?”

  “You will return to Outpost Five.” My head spins as his statement crashes down on me. “You are the best ore scout we’ve ever had. Your team brought up more cirium in one day than any outpost ever.”

  “People’s lives were at stake.”

  Cranny smirks. “They will be this time, too. Dram is safe as long as you continue to impress Jameson.”

  “But we’ve already mined nine.”

  “We’ve expanded it.”

  Something in my expression makes him smile. “Yes, there have been a few changes at Outpost Five while you’ve been sifting sand in the cordons. Seems the last batch of cirium was different. It’s something Jameson wants—enough to find you and bring you back.”

  “Will I…” I have to clear my throat. “Will I be able to earn my four hundred grams again?”

  “Of course. The Congress is nothing if not fair.”

  “Fair,” I whisper. The word hesitates on my tongue, like a flavor I’m tasting for the first time. I try to process the turn my future has taken. Tunnel nine. Outpost Five.

  “You’re only seventeen, Orion. You might actually stand a chance at earning four Rays again.”

  I had turned seventeen. In all my efforts to survive the cordons, I didn’t even think about my birthday. I let my mind mull this thought because the rest is … inconceivable. It makes me want to tell him no, and then Dram will die.

  “I’ll do it,” I murmur. My voice sounds like it’s coming from a long way off. I force myself to hold Cranny’s dark gaze. “Under one condition.”

  * * *

  Dram is standing in a ring of Striders when the Skimmer comes for him. He cranes his neck, searching for me. Cranny grasps my arm, and it’s that motion that draws Dram’s attention. His eyes widen, and I can tell the exact curse words he’s using.

  I wish I could explain, but it’s not part of Cranny’s arrangement—neither is saying good-bye. There’s no point, anyway. Dram can’t know what I’ve done to buy his freedom. It would destroy him. I soak in the sight of him, knowing this is the last time I will ever see him.

  I made an addendum to Cranny’s agreement. If I die down the tunnels, he cannot revoke the protection he’s extended to Dram. What he and Jameson don’t realize is that, without Dram, I won’t survive nine. As Dad said, he is part of what makes me strong.

  Pain knifes through my heart at the thought of Dad. He was the condition. By the time the hover lands at Outpost Five, Dad will already be gone, taken to the protected city. Free.

  As much as I’d like to see him again, to spend my remaining days with him, I will not force him to watch the charade I’m playing with Cranny. Nor will he have to light my pyre when I’m taken by nine. The other cavers will honor my Burning Day. Dad will never wear my ashes.

  The Striders force Dram into the Skimmer.

  “Orion!” he shouts. I can’t breathe past the weight in my chest. He fights against the soldiers, and they knock him to the floor. He’s still shouting my name as the doors close.

  “Time to go home,” Cranny says, steering me toward the hover.

  I watch Dram’s craft disappear into the sky.

  I’ll never be home again.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  0 grams cirium

  OUTPOST FIVE RECEIVES me like a long-lost daughter. The cavers greet me warmly—as if I were away taking a break instead of being punished for inciting rebellion. They don’t ask about the others. Perhaps the cavers have made their own arrangements with Cranny, and this is all part of the charade.

  Marin hovers on the perimeter, hugging the light of a fire pit. Her eyes flick over me head to foot, like she can’t quite believe I’m the same person. I can hardly believe it myself.

  “So you’re back,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  She nods as if it makes sense, but her eyes are full of questions. “And Dram?”

  Pain knifes through my chest. “He earned passage through the flash curtain.”

  Her expression wars between surprise and confusion. “I’m happy he’s free.”

  “Me too.”

  Something shifts in her eyes, and I can tell she’s seeing past my walls. “You want to get a pint?”

  “Flash me, yes,” I say. She smiles and leads the way to the lodge.

  Perhaps I won’t be alone at Outpost Five, after all.

  * * *

  The fire pits have burned down to embers by the time I finally push through the door of my house. The home I shared with Dad, now an empty shell. It smells like him, the cream he rubbed into his hands, the chemicals he worked with in the infirmary. But even in the dark, I see that the shelves are bare, his books and microscope gone.

  A sudden thought has me kneeling, prying up the floorboards.

  Come and find me, Orion. This time it’s Dad’s voice I hear. His underground lab is dark, so I grab my headlamp and drop in. A piece of metal sheeting covers the chasm Roran conjured the day of the storm. I step carefully across it, the metal creaking beneath me as I explore the space.

  He cleared it out. Just a few boxes of supplies and some vials remain. It looks like infirmary storage. I climb out, fighting the urge to cry. I don’t know what I hoped he might’ve left me. A final message, maybe, or some clue as to what I should do next.

  It feels strange lying in my loft bed in this empty house. Dad’s bed doesn’t feel right either, so I end up wrapping myself in his blanket and sliding under the bed. I wear my headlamp on dim and fall asleep staring up at Mom’s map.

  * * *

  I walk toward nine with a sense of inevitability, like my destiny has always been tied to this tunnel, its fate interwoven with mine. Even from this distance, I sense the changes within its depths.

  Like me, it has been reshaped by the Congress.

  Cranny stands beside the Rig next to Jameson. His eyes narrow when he catches sight of me, and I hold back my smile. I’m not wearing a uniform. Nothing marks me as the Congress’s ore scout but the remembrance pendants hanging down my shirt. I lift an Oxinator off a cart and sling it over my shoulder. I found a pair of my old gloves at the house, and Dad’s satchel is strung across my chest. Mom’s axe swings from my hand.

  I stopped at Dram’s house and got the knife he kept hidden under his mattress. I allowed myself a few moments, wrapped in his blanket, breathing his scent, before I slipped the blade into my boot and headed here.

  “Cavers up!” Owen calls. Cavers pour through the doors of the Rig, but I notice they don’t tap the sign supports as they head toward the tunnels.

  Instead, they look at me.

  “Scout,” they murmur, as they walk past.

  “Hunter,” a man says.

  Hunter?

  Owen meets me at the mouth of nine, wearing a depth gauge and a light gun strapped to his hip. He’s dyed his suit black. “I’m going with you.”

  Marin walks up beside me. “So am I.” She hands me a skullcap and a headlamp.

  “Have you done this before?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “I have no idea what’s down there,” I say.

  “Maybe a way out.” Her brow lifts, and she grins. I wonder what happened to the girl who ran when she saw my orbie-infected hand. She seems to read my thoughts. “You got past the curtain.”

  “I came back.”

  She studies my face. “I’m sure you have your reasons.”

  “Dram.” I want her to know. “Dram is my reason.”

  Her eyes widen. “I figured Cranny had some hold over you.”

  My eyes slip down her suit. The ore scout in me leaps into action. “Keep your axe on the left, so you can reach it with your right hand,” I say. “Your harness needs to be tighter.” I pull the strap at her hip. “You don’t want to keep your flare in your belt like t
hat—it can ignite if you scrape the rocks.” My hands move over her suit as I continue to adjust her gear, speaking softly. I realize I’m checking her the same way I did Dram. A fist squeezes my heart.

  “I know how much you care for him,” she says. “I think I knew before you did.”

  “He’s easy to love,” I murmur.

  “No.” She watches me solemnly. “You’ve traded your life for his. I wouldn’t call that easy at all.” She swings her axe to her left side and walks into nine.

  * * *

  “Do you understand your task today?” Cranny asks.

  “Perfectly.”

  “You can’t afford any mistakes. Jameson has high expectations.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you have everything you need?” Jameson asks, striding forward.

  “No. Dram is gone. I need a new marker.”

  “Take your pick,” he says, nodding toward a group of cavers.

  “They’re too big,” I lie. “I need someone who can follow me through tight spaces.” He raises a brow. As my marker, Dram towered over me. “I need that kid. What’s his name?” I adjust my Oxinator on my back, like I don’t really care what Cranny says. Like it makes no difference to me if he assigns Roran as my marker. But Mere’s son is essential to my plan. I need a Conjuror for what I intend to do.

  “The Natural?” Cranny asks. He shakes his head. “He’s not commissioned as a marker—”

  “I’ll commission him myself,” Jameson says. “Give her what she needs.”

  My hearts pounds, and I tell myself to breathe normally, look normal.

  “Fine.” Cranny mutters. He waves down a guard. “Get the boy. He’s in the Rig.” There’s a palpable tension between him and Jameson, something volatile in the spaces between their words, like the wrong phrase could set fire to their fragile civility. I can’t help feeling that it has everything to do with me.

  “Scout!” Roran shouts, streaking toward me.

  I want to shout back and throw my arms around him. Instead, I narrow my eyes. “Don’t raise your voice like that down there, or you’ll get us killed.” His brow furrows. “You’re with me now.” I hand him a bolt gun. “Secure this to your belt. Step in my steps. Let’s go.”

  He eyes me curiously, like he expected to touch a blanket and instead put his hand in an orbie pool. Good. Hopefully Cranny bought my act, too.

  The new passage is a world unto itself. I’m starting to think that the Congress sent Conjurors down here to carve these paths and ledges—which is an interesting thought, since I’m going to try the same thing myself.

  A few meters in, I pull my mouthpiece away. “I’m sorry for the act, Roran. Cranny can’t know we’re friends. No one can.”

  His scowl lifts.

  “Did you see your mom?” I ask.

  “Yes. I’ve been sneaking her stuff.”

  “I knew you would. Did she tell you how I found her in Cordon Four?”

  “She said you gave her my flower.”

  I smile at the memory, that tangible bit of hope Mere and I exchanged through the fence.

  “Where are Dram and Reeves?” he asks.

  “Not coming back.” I squeeze his shoulder.

  Owen walks toward us. He’s the only one I trust to guide Roran across. He understands structure and stability, and I’m trusting it will be enough to keep them from bringing the tunnels down on our heads. I turn to Roran, hoping I’m right about his ability, that he adapted to the elements.

  “Roran, you’re not going to be my marker. Each day down here, I want you to go with Owen.”

  “To where?”

  “Four.”

  His eyes widen as the meaning of what I’m saying sinks in. “You want me to make a path across the tunnels?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I can’t conjure this close to the flash curtain—”

  “Remember what happened the day of the flash storm?” He nods, wide-eyed. “I need you to be the Conjuror you are.”

  His eyes light up, and I can practically feel the energy pulsing from him. I take his hand and lay it on the cavern wall. It shudders at his touch.

  “Are we going to get my mom and Winn free?”

  My eyes meet his, and I know they’re just as bright. “We’re going to get everyone free.”

  * * *

  We make it four hundred meters the first day. A fair distance scouting a new passage, but I want to press deeper even more than Jameson does. I have never been separated from Dram before, but this is more than just missing him. Something is wrong, and I feel it the way I feel the presence of cirium. It’s a song in my veins, and this time it’s discordant.

  When we emerge from the tunnel, we’re greeted by a sight I hoped to never see again—the long wooden struts of a cordon corral. My breath seizes in my chest. Only someone who’s shuffled through the turnstiles of Cordon Four understands what this means.

  I don’t have all the pieces of the puzzle, but I feel like there’s an invisible clock hanging over us—like the one above Sanctuary, counting down the minutes until the illusion of safety is shattered.

  I need to find out what the Congress is planning. My gaze narrows on Central’s stone walls, and it occurs to me that there’s just one place here I’ve never climbed.

  * * *

  The mansion is like an island of civility, complete with artificial lawns and trees, a façade that distracts the eye from the patrolling guards and cirium shields that protect it as a command center. It’s stood here for generations, a symbol of Alara’s strength.

  But there’s a chink in its armor.

  “You’re sure the security sensors are down?” I ask Owen.

  “They shorted out during the flash storm. That’s why they’ve posted extra guards.” We watch the guards milling around the front in Radsuits. Suits that give them limited visibility.

  “Whenever the Radlevels rise, the interior sensors malfunction. That’s why Jameson had Barro make a lock and key for his quarters.” Owen grins and hands me the key Barro made. An exact copy of the commissary’s. “Just look for the door with the sturdy iron lock.”

  I smile. If any Subpar was ever on the side of cavers, it’s the man who forges our axes and makes our memorial pendants.

  “I’ll let you know what I find,” I murmur.

  The stone is pitted from the elements and uneven in places, which makes climbing it possible for a girl used to the Range. Doing it quickly without being seen is the hard part. My foot slips, and my cheek scrapes the wall. I’m nine meters up, on a backside wall that’s obscured in shadow. My worn Subpar clothes nearly blend with the stone as I scale one of the only places around here not patrolled by guards. They cover the entrances, not realizing that the exterior walls need defense from an ore scout with nothing left to lose.

  I wish Dram could see me now. And Reeves. They would have loved seeing the mountain goat climb right past the Protocol-protected sanctity of Central. I cling to a pipe and break open a window, then drop inside.

  As scared as I am, I can’t help but notice the obscene grandeur of the place. Paintings hang in ornate frames, and dainty furniture sits in alcoves next to shelves of books. Books. I’d never imagined so many existed at Outpost Five.

  My steps echo over the polished floor as I keep to the shadows. Tech rooms line this wing, filled with monitors and men and women in gray uniforms scurrying from station to station. A door seals shut as a tech walks past, and I duck around the corner.

  I slip down to the second floor and scan the corridor. The door at the end is secured with a metal lock. I run toward it, hoping Jameson’s not inside. Surely, the fact that his guards aren’t present must mean he’s away. The key slides smoothly into place, and the door opens with a click. I take a breath and step inside.

  Maps cover the walls and electronic screens. The scout in me wants to examine each one, but I force myself to focus. I ignore the table and chairs, the bed and wardrobe, and head straight to his desk.

  There�
��s a weather report and supplies log. I imagine he keeps his communications on the kind of screencom I’ve seen his guards use. I sigh with frustration and look back to the maps. There’s a smaller one tucked behind the others that catches my eye. It’s labeled TUNNEL NINE.

  My blood quickens. This is no map for nine. I trace the depth readings written over it in sparse black writing. They’re wrong. For tunnel nine, anyway. Too shallow, and the winding stair-step patterns he’s indicated are more like … seven.

  I’ve stopped breathing. Seven was Mom’s tunnel, closed since the collapse. Congress declared it unstable, not worth the sparse amounts of cirium the team had been bringing out of it.

  Now all the blood is rushing through my body like it can shake me from my shock and get me moving away from here. I check under the bed, then the wardrobe, searching through uniforms, even running my hands along the wood, feeling for hidden panels. If Jameson’s recording those measurements, he needs a depth gauge.

  I run to his desk and drag the chair out. I drop to my knees and feel beneath his desk. Wood, wood … tech—wedged in a corner.

  A depth gauge, glinting with fresh particle dust.

  The commissary is not what he seems.

  Still, this doesn’t explain the corral going up beside the lodge. I shove the gauge back and rifle through his papers, looking for something with the word cordon. A flat, silver tech device sits in the middle of the desk. I slide my finger along the side, and words and numbers illuminate above it. The word cordon is here more times than I care to read, and beside it—a timetable.

  Voices drift up from the stairwell. I turn off the projection, dash through the door, and twist the key in the lock.

  I turn and crash into a guard. A guard wearing a chain of office.

  “Flash me,” I whisper, and look up into Jameson’s startled eyes.

  “What’s going on?” Cranny calls. He strides toward us from the end of the hall. “What have you done, Orion?”

  “I had questions for her,” Jameson replies smoothly. I look at him, trying to mask my surprise.

  “Subpars are not permitted inside Central,” Cranny bristles.

  “I don’t require your authorization, Director,” Jameson says, a note of warning to his voice.