Flashfall Page 2

  “Tunnel gull?” Dram asks.

  “Could be,” I murmur. “Or a flash bat.” Our backs nearly touch as we turn slowly, our palms and headlamps illuminating the shadows.

  “Fire,” Dram curses. “Let’s hope it’s just a gull. They don’t usually attack.”

  “Unless we’re near a nest…”

  Dram curses again.

  We stand in tense silence for a few moments. My hand hovers over my arm sheath and my double-bladed knife. I slowly let out a breath.

  “Whatever it was, it’s gone,” I say. “Let’s hurry and collect the sample.”

  Dram unhooks a rope and loops it through our harnesses. I feel his hands move over me, tightening straps, checking tension. Under the pretense of planning my climbing route, I tip my head back and let my headlamp flash over the silvery veins in the wall.

  Dram and I have a system, a sort of wordless communication that’s evolved from years working the tunnels together—which is why I have to work hard to conceal my panic from him now. Tank twenty-seven has a popped seal and at least one cracked valve. I can feel the cavern’s particles slipping into the airstream, attaching to my lungs like microscopic leeches. But if we go back empty-handed, they won’t let us come this far again. And we are so, so close.

  “Will your axe hold?” Dram asks.

  I glance down at my pickaxe, its worn handle split by a narrow crack that has been widening for weeks, a fault line in the wood that threatens to send my axe head flying loose. But this axe is all I have left of my mother. I fit my fingers to the impressions hers left in the handle. When I grasp it, I feel like I’m holding her hand.

  I imagine her with me now, urging me on. “It’ll hold.”

  I tuck the axe in my holster and climb.

  When I told our outpost director what I suspected was down here, he didn’t believe me. Large deposits of cirium are rare. I told him he just wasn’t looking in the right place. When you’re bargaining for your life, you use whatever words are at your disposal—and whatever leverage. I have a surprising amount for a sixteen-year-old in a mining camp, but then, I didn’t hang the sign above the lodge.

  400 GRAMS CIRIUM = PASSAGE THROUGH FLASH CURTAIN

  Dad says the Congress hung it there to motivate as well as mock us. Four hundred grams of cirium takes a lifetime to acquire. No one going down the tunnels lives that long.

  The day after Mom died, I took up her axe and went down my first tunnel. Dad said nine was too young to mine; the director said I wasn’t strong enough. The 2.38 grams I brought back with me told them both what they could do with their opinions.

  But I’m afraid that sign is going to end up mocking me after all. The pain in my chest tells me I’ve already started dying.

  “What’s wrong, Rye?” Dram asks.

  “I’m fine.” I shoot a climbing bolt into stone and clip my rope into it.

  “I don’t have enough energy for your lies today,” he says. And he’s right—he sounds exhausted. I let go of the wall, and Dram takes my weight as I sink into my harness and dangle beside the rockface.

  “Let’s get what we came for,” I say. “Just enough to convince them.” I slam my axe into the rock. Sparks flash as I chip away at the stone.

  “Tell me when you’re ready for the dust,” he says, his words breathless.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t have enough energy for my lies, either,” Dram mutters.

  “Fine, let’s hurry this up.” I holster my axe and brace my legs against the water-streaked stone.

  “Careful,” Dram cautions.

  My breath hitches, and I’m not sure if it’s my restricted air supply or fear. The water flows, glowing with Orbiturnus nocturne—we call them orbies. My father believes they’re drawn to the cirion gas released from oxidizing cirium. So I followed them, like a trail of bread crumbs. Bread crumbs that will just as likely eat me before I can use them to find my way.

  “Rye?” Dram says. “You ready?”

  All I can think is, The water is hungry, and I am so, so close.

  The stone glistens near my face, swarming with orbies so dense I can’t see the rock beneath them. But if this seam of ore is as big as I think it is, I can finally earn a life that offers more than darkness and death. I can get the people I love to Alara, safe behind the cirium shield.

  If I think on that hard enough, I imagine it is worth my blood.

  Time to test Dad’s theory.

  “Now!” I call.

  Dram launches a pouch of dust at the wall, and it explodes against the dripping rock. I yank my flash blanket over my head and body. It sizzles, burning with the drone of thirsty, unsatisfied bacteria.

  “Clear!” shouts Dram.

  I toss the blanket away from me, holding in a scream as a few orbies burrow their way through my gloves. Then I see the wall.

  “Holy fire,” I breathe. Dad was right. The compound he made illuminates the cirion gas. The dust glimmers above the stone, revealing a massive vein of cirium. My eyes water like I’m staring into a Subpar’s headlamp.

  I’ve found enough to buy my way out of the Exclusion Zone—and Dad, Dram, and his sister, Lenore. There’s more than enough here for 400 grams each. We just have to dig it out of rock covered in carnivorous bacteria. But not today. I’m running out of air, and so is Dram.

  There’s a tug on my rope.

  “Rye … I can’t—”

  Dram’s voice cuts out. My earpiece crackles, and I crane my neck to see behind me. He collapses to the ground, the belay line slipping from his grasp.

  “Fire!” I swear, dropping, lurching for handholds as the tension goes out of the line. I cling to the rock, my feet dangling. “Dram!” I’m fifteen meters above the ground in a dark, wet cavern. The glowing water drips over my hands, deep orange and burning like lava. I scream.

  Orbies are minuscule, but I swear I feel their teeth as they burrow through the layers of my gloves and skin. I drag in air, force myself to think through the pain. I’m starting to lose feeling in my hands. My grip on my handholds loosens.

  I let go with one hand and reach for my bolt gun. I need to secure myself and set up a rappel, but the orbies swarm over my remaining hand, a mass of glowing orange. They travel past my wrist. My hand shakes. I am telling it to hold tight, but I’m not sure it can hear me anymore. I slip my rope free and bite the end with my teeth, threading it through the bolt. Tears seep from my eyes, blurring my vision behind my goggles. I shove them down around my neck and swipe my sleeve across my eyes. The orbies are eating through my wrist gauge. My radial artery pulses fast just beneath it.

  My claw of a hand slips. I cry out, firing the bolt and falling. It sinks into an arch of rock, and my wrist nearly snaps with the force of the rope catching. I dangle from the line, swaying over the pool of orbies. I try to shake off the ones clinging to me, but they’ve dug in deep.

  The pain is the only thing keeping me conscious. That, and my fear of falling into the water. The particles in the air float into my eyes, but I steal a glimpse of Dram, passed out beside the pool. One of his hands dangles over the water. Orbies pile on top of one other, forming a liquid ladder of want that grows out of the water toward his fingers.

  “Dram!” I shout his name, even though he’s got my voice right in his earpiece. I can’t hear him breathing.

  I tilt my head back and assess my situation. I start with the positives: not dead yet. I move on to the negatives: Dram needs air now. I can’t climb one-handed. Can’t lower myself to the ground because I’m directly over the water.

  There’s a loosening over my wrist, and what’s left of my depth gauge falls to the pool six meters below. The orbies on my wrist celebrate by digging into my epidermis.

  “Flash me,” I mutter. I’m out of time. There’s only one thing I can think to do. Grasping tight to the rope, I bring my legs up and sway my body. When I get close to the wall of ore, I catch myself with my boots and shove off. Back and forth, I repeat the motion, building mo
mentum. The third time, I push with all my strength and let go of the rope.

  Air rushes up at me, and my stomach tells me I’m free-falling. I stretch my arms, willing my body to make it beyond the reaches of the orbie pool. I hit the ground and curl up, my protective padding slapping the ground as I roll. I gasp for breath, and the particles in my lungs scratch like grains of sand.

  Groaning, I turn onto my stomach and crawl toward Dram. The orbies still swarm my left hand and wrist. As I push myself toward him, I pull a flare from my belt and ignite it on the cave floor. Red flames pop and hiss, and I hold it under my orbie-covered arm. I scream behind my teeth as the heat penetrates my suit and the holes in my gloves, but the orbies ignite, burning to bits of ash. They make a screeching sound before they flame up, and the ones that are deep burrow with renewed urgency. I still can’t feel anything in my hand, so I dip it closer to the flame, grateful the synthetic layers of my suit aren’t flammable. The flare burns out, and I toss it away.

  “Dram!” I drag myself to his side and lift his head. His lips are blue.

  I unstrap my Oxinator and press it over his nose and mouth. “Breathe.” I tap the side of his face. “Open your eyes. Breathe.” Tears prick my eyes.

  He sucks in a breath, and his eyes slowly open, meeting mine. The orange lights of the goggles distort their color, but I know they are blue with flecks of gold. Like I imagine the sky looks in places where there are no flash curtains.

  “You are not allowed to go before I do,” I say. “That was our deal.”

  “Other … way…’round,” he says. With a shaking hand, Dram presses the mask to my mouth. I breathe.

  “Can’t … do this … long,” he gasps.

  The air hisses through the tube. “Not leaving you,” I say.

  “So stubborn.”

  “We’re not dying here.” I lift my palm light to point to a narrow crevice carved into the rock face. “Air cave.”

  “Too far,” he says.

  “Thirty meters.”

  “Too narrow.” Breath.

  “Have to try.” Breath.

  The indicator light on his Radband begins to pulse, responding to the drop in his vital signs. If we hadn’t already switched off the auditory alarms, it would be screeching at us by now.

  I grasp him under the arms and half drag him to his feet. We stagger across the cavern like a couple of drunks. Halfway there, black spots fill my vision and I forget to pick up my feet. I stumble against the wall, and Dram steadies me with his hands at my waist. A second later, the mask presses against my face and I take a shaky breath. I can see the cave through the black spots. I turn and grasp Dram’s wrist, force the mask to his face. We stare at each other, and I swear I can hear his thoughts over the sounds of the oxygen draining from tank twenty-seven.

  If you go now, you’ll still make it.

  I’m not leaving you.

  So stubborn.

  He sighs behind the mask, grips my arm, and hauls me across the crevice toward the air cave.

  Please, let it be an air cave. I’ve never been wrong about the hidden passages beneath the Range, but still, air caves are rare this far past tunnel seven. We stagger toward the opening. I have to squeeze in sideways. Once inside, I grip the rocks and climb up to give Dram room. His shoulders won’t fit through.

  Dram pushes the tank through the crack. “Take it!”

  “Not without you.” I drag in a breath and shove the respirator over his mouth.

  He clasps the mask and scans the crevice with his palm light. A whine vibrates through the cylinder. Dram and I meet eyes. I bang my hand against tank twenty-seven, hoping it’s just being temperamental. It protests with a whir and goes silent. I bang it again. Nothing.

  In the space between breaths I wonder at the coincidence of both Dram and me being sent down with faulty air tanks. Then my survival instincts kick in.

  The air pocket is trapped up against the ceiling of rock. I crack a glow stick and toss it on the ground. The green light illuminates the walls. The air cave’s about two arm lengths wide and twice my height. No water, no gull nests, no flash bats. Shoving my feet into cracks, I grip narrow handholds and scale my way up as best I can with injured hands. Toward the top, there’s a shift in the air, like it’s lighter without the particles that infiltrate the rest.

  Heading back down, I don’t bother with handholds. I drag in air and drop. The force of the impact jars my legs, but I lurch for the crack where Dram is trapped. I cup his face in my hands, point to my mouth and mime taking a breath. He nods, and we reach for each other at the same time. His lips press mine, and he draws a breath from my mouth. I’m sure I will think about the intimacy of this moment later, but for now all I can think is Breathe, Dram. Don’t die on me.

  We yank off his harness and bulky outer layers. I unzip his suit and peel it down to his hips. He gasps as the air pricks his skin and my fingers tangle in the synthetic mesh cloth of his undershirt, working the buckles free. The dark rises up. I need air. Now.

  There’s no time to spray skin barrier over Dram’s chest and arms. The particles in the air frost his torso with slivers of crystal. He groans as they adhere, but without the protective layers, he can squeeze through the opening. He falls into my arms, gasping and trembling. My hands slip over his torso, and I feel the hard ridges of muscle he’s carved from years mining and trolling the tunnels with me.

  “Have to climb,” I gasp, pointing to the shadows above us.

  He leaps for the nearest handhold and drags himself up. I’m smaller but faster, and we reach the ledge at the same time. We brace ourselves in the air pocket, letting the clean air fill our burning lungs.

  He shudders, and I let my palm light shine over him, head to toe. His Radband lets off its pulsating glow. Someone back in Central is seeing the alert and passing along the message.

  Dram Berrends is dying.

  They will study our coordinates. Down tunnel nine, far from where we’re supposed to be.

  I wrap my arms around him, and he shakes against me. “We made it,” I murmur. “We’re going to be okay.” I watch the mineral burn spread over his skin. He is far from okay.

  I unzip the emergency medical supplies from a pouch in my suit. Serum 38 is a vaporized spray. I empty the canister. His skin rises up in angry red pustules, but he doesn’t seem to feel it anymore. I uncap a syringe of Serum 129 with my teeth and push it into his arm. A shock inhibitor, though I’m sure it’s late for that. I can’t cover his skin, or risk flame to warm him, so I turn up the heater in his suit and clasp his gloved hands in mine.

  “What … happened … your hands?” he asks.

  “Made some orbie friends. Introduced them to my flare.”

  He grunts, and reaches for a syringe in the pocket of his suit.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “That’s adrenaline—” He flicks off the cap and holds the needle above my thigh.

  “Old … caver trick.” He slams the needle into my leg and presses the plunger.

  I take rapid breaths, my eyes tearing from the pain. “My blood pressure,” I gasp. “Those orbies will explode—”

  “That’s the … idea,” Dram murmurs, dragging my glove from my hand.

  Adrenaline pulses through me, and I suppress the urge to run, my breath hitching from my mouth. “Dram, what—” A scream cuts off my words. The orbies burst under my skin, illuminating my veins in splashes of orange.

  “I’m sorry.” He drops the syringe and pulls me against his side. “They would’ve … gotten to … arteries.”

  Tears stream from my eyes, but the adrenaline is a barrier against the pain. As we huddle at the top of the air cave, our legs start to shake from the effort of bracing ourselves up. Dram slips off his goggles and turns his head. I think he’s afraid I’ll see the pain he’s hiding from me. As the minutes tick by, his skin swells, until every needle-like puncture looks like a spider bite. We have to get him out before they burst. There’s nothing in our medical kits for that.

&nb
sp; I’ve seen only one person die from mineral burn. His death was no gentle sigh.

  “What … did we … find?” Dram’s head is still turned away, his voice shaking more than his body.

  “Enough cirium to earn a place in the protected city.”

  “Something more than … cirium in that cavern.”

  “Yeah, orbies.” I feel them, even now, pushing against the current of my bloodstream.

  “Two … bad tanks.” His words penetrate my haze of pain. The idea that someone tried to sabotage our ascent wedges a knot of fear in my stomach. He turns, and his eyes bore into mine. My good hand clenches my arm, above the seal of our city-state, where black stitching marks my designation. Lead Ore Scout.

  What have I led us to?

  I remind myself that the Congress needs our cirium. Generations of Subpars have served at this outpost, hunting the caverns for cirium ore to protect one of the last remnants of civilized humanity—the city on the other side of the flash curtain.

  Help will come. If not for us, then for the vein of cirium we discovered.

  My eyes stay fixed on the rhythmic pulse of Dram’s rescue tracker.

  “Help is coming,” I murmur. “They’ll find us soon.”

  Surely it’s true.

  I’m not ready to die. Not when we’ve found a way to finally live.

  THREE

  305.82 grams cirium

  NEWS OF OUR escapade down the tunnel spreads through camp. I can tell by the number of people gathered near the mouth of nine as we stagger out. I think it has less to do with our near-death rescue, and more with the seam of ore we found. Someone in Central must have let it slip. Hardly surprising in a place where cirium is everything.

  I lean into the man supporting the bulk of my weight. “I think we missed the monkey party, Owen.” He gives me a pitying look that tells me the drugs in my system must be talking again. I’ve never reacted well to shock inhibitors.

  “Hang on just a bit longer, Scout.” He smiles, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin.

  “We’ll have to dance another day, girlie,” says Graham Jorgensen, breathing hard under Dram’s weight. He always calls me girlie and Dram boyo. Since our mothers died and he taught us how to swing their axes.