“It’s been ten minutes, Diz. Should we be planning to take afternoon tea down here? Maybe roll out some sleeping bags?” Jaesin asks. He and Ania exchange a glance, that perfect parental balance of amused and vaguely concerned.
I clench my teeth. “I’m aware, Jaesin. Doing the best I can.”
I pull out my deck and slip the other end of the cable into its port, then dive in. With the direct connection, I bypass the worst of the security in a matter of minutes. Finally, back on solid footing. I breathe the tiniest sigh of relief as I search the code for the valve control functions; we could just release it manually, of course, but that would be recorded in the logs and possibly set off an alarm somewhere at the station. Only amateurs do that. This way I can get in, get the valve to open itself, make it look like a normal pressure release was triggered, and start directing the flow from farther up the pipe. Much quieter.
“Get those vials ready, Ania. Remi, you ready?” I ask. Everything’s set. This is the hard part. We have to be perfectly coordinated, and fast. Without Ania, we only have one set of eyes on watch, but she’s done setting up her outer wards, and we need her talents elsewhere.
Ania leaves her post and retrieves the vials from her bag, lining them up on a small ledge near the valve. That done, she steps back and weaves a second set of wards, this time encompassing Remi, the valve, and the vials in one area, separating them from us. The maz in these pipes is already scrubbed of the spellplague contaminant, but you can never be too careful when it comes to the thing that left three-quarters of us without parents. Remi hovers there, eyes on the first vial, nimble fingers poised and ready as I work on the code side of things. They always love this part, but today they’re grinning from ear to ear, waiting to make a discovery. Maz is a huge part of their life. Finding out there might be a new kind when it’s been hundreds of years since the last strain was discovered must be like . . . I don’t even know. Like the jump from screens to smart lenses? Bigger? Like the world is a different place.
I prep the final command to open the valve, then hold my breath. This guy asked for way too much, really, more than I’d usually be comfortable siphoning of any one strain. Too noticeable. And last time we barely got a trickle, accidentally mixed in with something else. We’re just hoping there’s more where that came from.
But after this, we’re done. No more jobs. One enormous payday. Definitely worth the risk.
And then I’ll see what life will look like at the end of the week for real. Who knows, maybe we’ll be rocking a top-floor apartment in one of the high rises together, rolling around in ice cream and tacos, watching garbage TV and eating Jaesin’s experiment of the week. Screw MMC, I’ll open my own business building top-of-the-line custom maz hardware, with Remi there as adviser. And more?
If we can just get through this job, maybe we can have it all.
“Okay, opening the valve in three . . . two . . . one . . .”
I hit ENTER, and silently beg the universe for some good luck. Please let Remi be right, let this pipe have the maz we need. There’s a tiny part of me that still doesn’t totally believe it’s real, that the stuff we gave Mattie was a fluke, but it’s too late now.
The pressure valve hisses open.
Remi’s on it immediately, holding back the flow with one hand while they use the other to carefully separate a handful of bright violet threads. They direct it with expert precision into the first vial, mouth open wide in an ecstatic, joyous laugh.
“Do you see that, Diz?” they say, following the flow of the strands with their eyes, the cheery violet reflected against the gray. “Do you see it? It’s real. Stars, Dizzy, this is a real thing.”
“I see it.”
And I’m totally captivated.
I need to be monitoring the system, looking for silent alarms or diagnostic alerts, but this part . . . Remi amazes me every time. Their connection to maz is so thorough, so intuitive. I’ll never be bored of watching them feel the flow in the pipes, drawing out exactly what we need, managing all of it with perfect technique, even when it’s a totally brand-new thing and their hands are shaking with pure excitement. The strain’s warm purple light puts a flush on their cheeks, glints off lips bitten in concentration, turns darkest brown hair to a purple-black sheen.
They’re beautiful.
A red warning light in the corner of my lenses pulls me back to the task at hand. Pressure alert. A blockage or something farther up the pipe, driving a surge of maz down our way. Remi frowns.
“You see that, Diz?” they ask, spinning the flow around their index finger while they seal the fourth vial and prep the fifth.
“I see it.” I back out from the valve we’re working on and travel deeper into the system, seeking out other valves farther down the pipe, away from the junction station. No security alerts at the next one down, no personnel nearby. Safe to open. I trigger it, hold my breath.
The warning light fades from red to orange, then to yellow. And holds steady there.
“Diz,” Remi says warningly.
“It’s fine.” I look over my shoulder and find Jaesin and Ania staring me down. “It’s fine, I promise. Bit of a pressure buildup upstream. I took care of it.”
“I don’t like it,” Jaesin says. “What if it gets worse?”
“We should go, Diz,” Ania urges, but I cut her off.
“No, we’re almost there. Just a few more vials. I’ll open the valve a bit wider so we can go faster. The pressure stabilized, it can handle it.”
Ania shakes her head.
“That sounds dangerous, Diz—let’s just take what we’ve got and go. We can get the rest another day,” she pleads.
“And let this guy back out of our deal, or refuse to pay the rest because we couldn’t deliver all of it by his deadline? We need that money.” Remi needs that money. Jaesin needs it too, if he wants that shiny apartment in Jattapore he’s been drooling over. Ania doesn’t need anything. I sure as hell do, though.
I’m not leaving without this maz.
I open the valve farther.
“Diz!” Ania snaps, and Remi sucks in a breath and rocks back on their heels, taking on the extra flow. The vials fill faster. Five. Six. Seven. Just one more, the one for Remi.
Then the pressure spikes, and Remi lets out a cry.
“Dizzy!”
“I see it!”
I open valves all up and down the line, but something’s wrong. The pressure climbs higher instead of stabilizing, traveling down the pipe like a cannonball racing toward us. I trip the failsafes, trigger every emergency protocol, but nothing, nothing’s working. My heart hammers in the base of my throat.
“Get out,” I say, yanking my cable free, turning to meet Jaesin’s and Ania’s wide eyes. “Go, GO!”
“No time—get back,” Remi gasps, just as a shrill screech splits the air and the spigot blows off the valve, grazing Remi’s forehead and drawing blood. They let out a hoarse shout, but redouble their efforts, raising both arms toward the pipe to catch the enormous flood of maz, freezing it in the air above them—and all the blood drains from my face as I note the color. It’s a flickering tangle of gold-red-orange, almost entirely firaz and magnaz. Practically a bomb.
The ominous silence falls like a stone as Remi holds the giant cloud of twisting, twining threads there, their face crumpled in pain, tears leaking from the corners of their eyes. Ania holds her arms up too, but techwitch ware can’t control maz outside its own chambers. She’s helpless, crying as Jaesin races back toward us, his eyes wild, stopping just outside Remi’s wards. Remi groans and redoubles their efforts, pushing, pushing . . . until an earth-shaking BOOM rocks the tunnel, sending dirt raining down, and the maz Remi was barely holding at bay is suddenly sucked back down the pipe. My ears pop with the sudden reversal of pressure, and I stumble to my knees, scraping them bloody through my trousers.
I don’t even feel the sting. Because right in front of me, Remi crumples, eyes closed, face pale, slipping through Jaesin’s arms to t
he ground.
Every single almost moment flashes through my mind.
The rooftop, just a few hours ago, shoulder to shoulder, stars in my hair.
Out at the club, dancing close, hands on waists and hips.
That one time, when we were barely fifteen . . . that first almost . . .
No.
“We have to get out of here,” Ania says, voice gone calm and even. “If there’s another pressure surge, we’re all dead.”
“Diz, help me,” Jaesin snaps, and that shakes me out of my horror. One of Remi’s hands flopped outside the second set of wards when they collapsed, and I leap forward to grab it and help Jaesin haul them back. Once they’re clear of the protective barrier around the tap point, Jaesin and I throw Remi’s arms over our shoulders and half drag, half carry them back to the access hatch, Ania jogging ahead of us to clear the newly fallen debris from our path.
Behind us, secondary explosions ring through the tunnels, with screeching pipes and a threatening rumble that feels almost like an earthquake aftershock. Remi’s electric blue rain boots drag over the moist, nasty concrete, the color quickly erased by grime and clinging wet weeds.
By the time we catch up to Ania at the end of the tunnel, she’s woven a quick combination of vitaz, the healer, and magnaz, the amplifier, an odd bright green glow in the cavernous filthy darkness of the sewers. Jaesin and I brace Remi long enough for Ania to slip the tiny spell onto their tongue, where it dissolves in a wash of green static.
An eternal ten seconds pass before there’s any visible effect.
Finally Remi’s eyelids flutter, their breathing going uneven for a moment, then cool gray eyes stare back at me, growing sharper and more alert by the second. The relief nearly chokes me breathless. My eyes burn with the effort to hold back tears.
“Can you walk?” I ask, brisk and clipped. They pull away from me, letting their arm fall from my shoulders and trying a tentative step.
“Yeah,” they rasp, pressing a hand to their temple with a wince. “Ania, gimme some of that.”
Remi gestures at the vial of extra vitaz Ania has pulled from her bag, and the maz lifts out of the vial like an ivy vine, twining through the air toward them. A bit of magnaz from the stores in their necklace, a tight and complex weave, and the whole thing goes straight into their mouth. A bit of color returns to Remi’s cheeks, but it’s a temporary fix at best. Without a word, they shrug Jaesin’s arm off and step onto the bottom rung of the ladder. Jaesin follows them up, close enough to catch them if they fall, and we climb until all four of us are back at the hatch. There’s no time to make a clean, stealthy exit, not with Remi’s condition and the constant threat of more explosions at our back. I push my way to the front and throw the door open, letting the late-morning sun spill over us, and step back.
When I turn to watch Remi emerge behind me, the wreckage beyond the park comes into view.
The explosion wasn’t just belowground.
Fire. Debris strewn through the streets. People running, screaming, crying. Loose maz pouring into the air from a gaping wound in the junction station.
Then the contamination sirens kick on, wailing their shrill warning, a savage punch to the gut.
Is the maz spilling from the station untreated? It’s moving fast, overtaking block after block, spilling, infecting.
Killing?
I wrap my arms around my middle, physically holding in noxious, nauseating dread.
What have we done?
Nine
I CAN BARELY SEE WHERE I’m going as we stumble through the park to the sight of people running through the streets, away from the junction station. My vision blurs, my mind one solid, silent scream as we run, my feet following Jaesin on autopilot as they have for the past ten years, since our first day in the group home together.
“We need to get to the train station,” he says, his voice hoarse. He wraps an arm around Remi to keep them on their feet as he turns toward an alley that dumps out on the nearest main road. “Come on!”
The four of us blend into the crowd, our breathing as harsh and panicked as everyone else’s. I hardly see any of it. My brain spins in endless circles, replaying every second of the hack. What did I do wrong? There were no indications that there would be a problem, no overload notices, no complaining sensors, until that one pressure blip out of nowhere. And there’s no reason bleeding off the pressure at the other tap points shouldn’t have worked. Even Remi didn’t feel anything until it was too late, way too sudden, just—HOW?
“Diz,” Ania says, her voice knife sharp. “Focus before you trip over your own feet and get trampled.”
But focus is impossible. Because when we turn to cross the bridge over the river, trying to get to the train station, the elevation provides us an even better view of the disaster in progress.
Of the maz pouring out from the junction station in tangled waves.
All the people who work at that station, who go there every day to earn money and a maz stipend for their families, they’re all going to be ill. And it’s our fault.
My fault.
I come to a stop at the apex of the bridge and watch the different strains of maz swirling through the air over the station like a glowing, glittering breeze.
“Those people—”
I break off and gag. My dad died at work, at this station, just like this. Just like this. My stomach roils with hot acid, and my throat contracts, trying to force me to vomit. I’m seven years old again, drowning in the smell of death, a lifeless hand holding mine, the panic, the gnawing emptiness in my belly, the strange people, the stinking crowds, the group home, the other empty-eyed kids, it’s too much, too much, and I don’t notice I’ve fallen to my knees until the chill of the concrete bites into the already torn skin there and sharp blades of grit dig into my palms. I can’t get a breath, can’t satisfy my hungry lungs, and I gasp, gasp—
An arm loops around my waist and hauls me up, slings my arm over a strong shoulder. Jaesin, dragging me to my feet and down the bridge, catching us up with Ania and Remi, who stare up at us.
Remi. Brow crinkled in worry. Looking pale and shaky.
They reach out to lay a hand on my shoulder as we draw near, and I recoil so hard Jaesin slams into the people next to us and nearly drops me.
“Don’t touch me.”
The words rip from my throat, my voice inhuman and harsh, sounding horribly far away. Echoing off cheap bathroom tile in a seven-year-old’s high, frightened voice.
Remi’s expression goes cold, so closed off it’s like a detonator spell went off in my chest. But I can’t. I need to shut down, feel nothing, and when Remi touches me . . .
I just can’t.
Ania takes over for Jaesin and turns us toward a side street. “We should split up, in case we were spotted. They’ll be looking for four people. We’ll meet back at your place, right?”
Jaesin nods his agreement and guides Remi away with a hand on their back. Before they turn, though, he shoots me a look, more furious than I’ve ever seen him. I catch a last glimpse of Remi’s face too. Blank. Resigned. I’ve ruined everything. I’ve finally done it—well and truly pushed them away, for good this time. I squeeze my eyes shut and lean more heavily on Ania.
“Oof,” she says, readjusting her hold on me. “I know you’re having a hard time right now, love, but I need you to help me out a bit here unless you want me to drop your ass in the middle of Montague Station like that night with the burritos and the goat.”
The memory of that night is enough to penetrate the fog in my brain. I manage to get my feet more firmly under me and do a stumbling walk toward the train station, eyes locked on the ground the whole way. One thing at a time. Get to the station. Repeat it until there’s nothing else in my brain. Train station, train station, train station, until they don’t even sound like words anymore, just a droning noise to keep out the rest.
But the train station isn’t the answer after all. We round the last corner, only to find a ring of fla
shing lights and uniformed bodies between it and us. The officers hold the panicking crowds at bay, directing people toward detours and scanning the crowd with sharp eyes.
Scanning for us?
Shit.
Ania tugs me around, presenting our backs to the police, and we dive into the thickest part of the crowd. We’ll have to make toward the apartment on foot until we can find a bus or train that’s still running, which could take all afternoon. I need to get it together. Ania can’t carry me for miles.
“Hold up,” I say, pulling away to lean against the side of a brightly lit coffee shop. This whole thing is manageable. I’ve pulled myself together before. I’ve let the seams get loose, though, let too much spill out into the open. Left myself vulnerable.
I can fix that.
I open the drawer in my mind where I keep all my horrors—all the details of the spellplague, my parents—and shove it all deep, deep down. Awful memories, anger, grief, everything scrabbles at the edges with long tendrils and spindly legs, desperate to get out, but I slam the drawer shut before anything can escape.
It can never close all the way. There’s always a crack. But I can pull off my usual self. Lock it away. It doesn’t exist. Spellplague? What spellplague? I don’t know, man, I just live here.
I take three long, deep breaths in through my nose, then push off from the wall.
“Okay,” I say. “Sorry. Let’s go. I’ll get us home.”
Ania watches me, cautious and worried, but follows me down the alley behind the shop all the same.
It takes us nearly an hour to find a bus along the right route to take us back to the apartment, then another hour of hopping from bus to bus to get around earthquake-damaged sectors before we finally make it back to the right part of town. None of the RidePods are accepting passengers, either due to overflow or because the police have shut the system down while they get control of the situation. During the ride, I compose and delete no less than twelve messages to Davon. What the hell am I supposed to say? Probably best not to involve him anyway. Don’t want the police knocking down his door looking for me. The need to reach out to him thrums like a constant vibration under my breastbone, though.
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