Flashtide Page 5

  But there’s more to it. He and I have Mom in common. He knew things about her—about her past and her life before Outpost Five. Before Dad and me. I’m not sure how, but it connects us in ways I don’t want to think about.

  “How exactly are you going to find your father?” Roran asks.

  “That’s the part of the plan with the holes.”

  “Great,” he mutters. “When Dram kills me for letting you do this, I’m going to blame you.”

  “Just conjure the tree, Roran.”

  He twists a wooden bead from his sash. A moment passes, and it trembles in his palm. Roots burst, twining around his hand before he drops it and it explodes into the ground, the roots growing, pushing up dirt.

  “Better step back,” he says.

  I duck as a branch thrusts from the trunk, twisting, shooting upward. He presses his hands against the bark and closes his eyes. This tree isn’t free to grow however it wants. I need it to reach the charging platform.

  The benefit of unmanned Inquiry Modules is that they lack sense. A machine won’t think anything of a tree growing exactly parallel to the charging station, nor branches that reach conveniently above the platform. Sometimes a Mod’s scanner feed is directed back to techs inside Alara, but that’s only if Conjies have been detected. I don’t plan to be detected.

  Roran’s arms shake against the tree as it grows and twists beneath his touch. “Tell me when it’s tall enough,” he calls.

  “Another few meters!” Leaves burst from the ends of branches, and the verdant smell lifts around us. He laughs, a carefree, happy sound I haven’t heard from him since Outpost Five. Then, above the sound of wood cracking and snapping—rumbling. I peer up past the branches. “There’s a Mod approaching! About five kilometers away.”

  “Get climbing!”

  “The tree’s still forming—”

  “Climb!”

  I leap and grasp the lowest branch and hoist myself up. The tree moves, stretching toward the sky as I climb. My arms disappear from view as the camo-cloth adapts to exact shades of bark and leaves.

  “I can’t see you,” Roran calls. “How high are you?”

  “Halfway.” I’m leaping now, thrusting my body upward.

  “That Mod is less than a kilometer away. You’re not going to be able to climb the rest fast enough.”

  “How about you conjure me some steps,” I mutter. If this were rock, I’d have made it to the top already. But this is a shifting, morphing Conjie tree, and one false step will send me plunging over the side. I’ve slipped twice already.

  “How much do you trust me?” Roran shouts.

  “I’m thirty meters off the ground in a tree that sprouted from your hands!”

  “Right. I’m going to try something. Slip your hood off so I can see you.”

  I feel the approach of the Mod, a subtle vibration beneath my fingers. “No more talking! Its sensors are activated!”

  “Fine. Just—hold on tight!”

  Vines shoot up around the trunk of the tree, curling around me, lifting me as they climb up through the branches. I pull free when I reach the top and tug my hood up. I want to shout with elation. I want to tell Roran his idea was brilliant, but I must stay silent. Invisible.

  I stretch out along the branch as the Mod rumbles above the platform. I’m in place. Ready. As it begins its descent, I turn my head, squinting against the beam of light from its scanner. I force myself to breathe steadily. In a few moments, it will dock and then I’ll secure myself to the backside of its rounded body. I unholster Dram’s old climbing bolt gun and wait. Just a few more seconds. The Mod approaches, its thrusters kicking the leaves into a frenzy, pushing at me so powerfully my limb sways. It descends past the platform.

  I stare at the bit of sky where the Mod should be. Why didn’t it dock? Nearly all Mods charge here before returning to Alara. A sick feeling blooms in the pit of my stomach.

  Roran shouts.

  “NO!” I thrust my cloak back and wave my arms, but the drone has zeroed in on Roran.

  It takes me too long to descend the tree. Bark scrapes my hands, my face, as I direct my body in a guided fall to the ground. Beneath me, Roran fights.

  We survive because we hide, Newel said. But he wasn’t speaking for Roran.

  I’m halfway down when the metal arms stretch toward him. He conjures rock—midair—so that a boulder slams down atop one of the clamps. The machine whirs and lifts, disengaging from its trapped claw.

  Branches snatch at my hair as I drop the last five meters.

  “Roran!” I shout, running toward him.

  A needle speeds toward Roran, and he conjures a wall of rock so fast it slams into it, snapping off. But another metallic arm seizes him from behind, pinching him around his waist and lifting him into the pod.

  I take the stance Dram taught me and empty every bullet I have into the Mod. Holes pit the metal, but the lid seals shut, muffling Roran’s shouts. Then the thrusters engage.

  “Fire, oh, fire!” I pound my fists against the metal, but there’s no lever, no visible way for me to unlock the opening. It begins to lift.

  I don’t stop to think. By the time it leaves the ground, I’ve anchored myself into the side of the craft with climbing bolts and rope knotted to my harness.

  We climb—not high, maybe a dozen meters off the ground. Usually Mods streak across the sky as if they are a part of it. This one lurches like it’s being kicked out of the air. Perhaps my bullets affected it after all. We rise slowly above the treetops, and I strain to make out landmarks. East. We’re heading east.

  Toward the flash curtain.

  I’m latched to the craft, just as I’d planned, but riding this Mod now won’t get me to Alara. Occupied Mods take their victims directly to the Overburden for processing. A wild thought streaks through my mind. I could disable the Mod before it can take us farther. I press my cheek to the metal and try to measure the dangers of crashing against the dangers of the Overburden.

  All I have to do is imagine Roran with appendages for hands. The scales tip.

  I reach for my gun, then remember I’ve used every bullet. I pat down my sides. What could I possibly use to stop this thing? My axe is back at camp. Knives—useless. My fingers brush the bolt gun.

  I snatch one of the last two bolts from my harness and load the gun, pointing at the Mod’s thrusters. A horrendous sound rends the air as the bolt collides with the inside of the engine. Metal groans; sparks burst from the thruster port. We drop, the ground rushes up, and then the Mod sputters and lifts, as some kind of secondary power kicks in. I dangle from the belly of the craft, my feet hitting branches as it cuts an unsteady path through the trees.

  “Orion!” Roran shouts. I’m surprised I can hear him through the pod’s glass. I picture his face in my mind, an expression that begs me to help. One I’ve seen before.

  A gulp of air, then I let go of my handhold. I sway, careening against the metal body of the Mod, but I need both hands free to load the bolt gun a final time. I unclip the last remaining bolt, clasping it so tightly it cuts my hand. I cannot drop it. I can’t fail him a second time.

  I fit the bolt to the gun, thinking how Dram would do this without even looking. Only, this was never the way he secured climbing anchors.

  I lift the bolt gun a final time, aiming with unsteady hands. I twirl from my rope, and the forest spins around me in a blur. I focus on the smoke seeping from the thruster port like blood. The beast is injured but not mortally. Not yet.

  I fire.

  A high-pitched whining pierces the air, and the engine screams. It coughs flame and shards of metal. We spiral toward the ground, and I clutch my handhold. Roran yells.

  We crash through trees, snapping branches. There’s no longer a wisp of smoke, but a plume of black so thick it fills my vision. I don’t see the branches the craft collides with, but I hear them cracking in protest as the Mod slams against them.

  The craft shudders like a beast in its death throes. My only hope
is that it won’t explode before I can get Roran free.

  I wish I could conjure. I’d weave thick vines to catch us, keep us from hammering into the ground. Suddenly, as if my thoughts brought them to life, branches twist around the falling Mod, catching hold of trees like hands grasping a ledge. I slam against the side of the craft as it jolts to a stop. We sway above the forest floor.

  “Hurry!” Roran shouts. He leaps from the cracked pod lid, vines twisting and streaming beneath his hands. I grab hold and release myself from the Mod. I tumble to the ground in a glide of vines and leaves.

  Roran lands beside me. We lie on our backs, catching our breath.

  We are alive. I can hardly believe it.

  The Mod bursts into flames.

  I don’t even shout at him to run. I lurch to my feet and yank him up by the arm. We sprint as far as we can, then collapse behind a shelter of rock, chests heaving.

  “Glenting hell,” Roran says breathlessly. We watch smoke plume, and even at this distance, the crackle of fire reaches us. “It would’ve taken me for processing.”

  “Yes.”

  “You saved me.”

  “I made us crash. You saved us.”

  “I can’t ever be Tempered, Orion.”

  “I know. I should never have risked this.”

  “Still. We took down an Inquiry Module.”

  I smile. Our eyes meet, his brown. Same brown as his mom’s. “You know who would’ve loved seeing that,” I say. It’s not a question. We both know. He nods, and those brown eyes shine with unshed tears. But he smiles. The first one I’ve seen since he found us.

  “You’re alive.” Dram’s voice, his tone a mix of shock and stark relief. I whirl to see him on the edge of our rock shelter.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Well you know, step in my steps and all that.” His bitterness is an unexpected jab. I’ve never heard him use our cavers’ creed like an insult.

  “You shouldn’t have come after me.”

  “Oh, right. You wanted me to just sit around while you ran off chasing Inquiry Modules—”

  “I had a plan!”

  “Your plans get people killed, Orion!”

  His words gouge me. Tear into me like a flash vulture.

  “I’m trying to save us.”

  “Fire, don’t I know it,” he mutters. He checks an ammo clip and slams it into his gun. “There’s smoke pouring from a downed Mod a few kilometers from our camp. How long before they send more to scour this area? Did you think at all, Orion?”

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen. I was going to—”

  “How did it crash?”

  “I shot bolts into the thruster.” His eyes widen.

  “Climbing bolts?” He looks back at the wreckage and drags his hands through his hair. “Glenting hell, Orion.”

  “It had Roran!”

  “So when Striders examine that Mod, they’ll find it was attacked by someone using miner’s climbing bolts. Subpar gear from the outposts. They’ll know it’s us!”

  The enormity of what he’s saying slams into me.

  The free Conjies are hunted, but it’s nothing compared to the Congress’s relentless pursuit of Dram and me. We are targets on the backs of anyone who shelters us.

  “Oh, fire,” Roran murmurs. A look of horror crosses his face, and Dram and I turn at the same time. Trackers erupt from the Mod’s port. I’d assumed we’d damaged them in the crash. Some of them catch fire as they burst from the crippled Mod.

  I think of ore mites, down the tunnels, how the true threat was when you split them open and their parasites emerged.

  Foolish, reckless, headstrong.

  “We have to warn them.” Dram’s grim tone hits my blood like ice.

  “Roran,” I say, gripping the boy’s shoulders. “Stay here. Hide.”

  I turn away while he’s still arguing with me. Please, I think. Just this once, do as you’re told. And then, when I hear him racing through the trees behind Dram and me, I think: I’m sorry, Mere.

  We run through the forest, our boots crunching over fallen branches. Dram activates the screencom on his wrist.

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to use those.”

  “I’ve got to risk it.” He lifts the tech to his mouth. “Newel, come in. You’ve got trackers coming. From the southeast.”

  “Dram!” Newel’s voice crackles through. Static garbles the rest of his words.

  “Newel! Did you hear me?” Dram adjusts the com, glancing down as we dodge between trees. “You need to take shelter!” Shouts burst from the com speaker.

  “… already … here!” We reach the top of the ridge as he says it. But it’s worse than that. We can see more than Newel from our vantage point, and trackers are the least of their problems now. “Mods!” Newel’s voice breaks through. “Too many … surrounded—”

  Dram powers down the com device and retrieves a gun. He loads it with a grim determination I’ve only seen this side of the flash curtain.

  “Did I do this?” I have to know.

  “That Mod you destroyed was a signal flare to the Congress!”

  He turns, and I grasp his arm. “Don’t go. If you’re caught—”

  “Don’t go? I can’t believe you’d ask that!”

  “Your Radband—”

  “They need us!” He yanks his arm from my grasp and runs toward the camp. Cries lift on the wind, piercing past the drone of trackers. Roran follows in his wake.

  “Roran, stop!” I call. “There are too many!” I chase after them, my lungs squeezing as I fight to breathe past the weight on my chest.

  The camp is chaos. People run, but trackers dart through the air, tagging them with ionic paint. Once marked, they’ll show up on every sensor. Mods are already approaching to collect them.

  “Aim for the trackers!” Dram calls to the fighters gathered at the center, weapons raised. He fires, and a tracker shatters apart. “I need you in this fight, Rye!” He unclips a gun from his thigh holster and tosses it to me.

  I fumble with the weapon, trying to release the safety. My mind runs through all the things I’ve seen Dram do. I point the muzzle at the ground and pull back the slide.

  “Flash me!” I can’t get it pulled back.

  “Use your whole hand,” Dram calls.

  I drag my sweaty palm against my coat and then clamp it over the slide. It pulls back with a click. I mirror his stance and take aim. The trackers hum through the air in unpredictable patterns, rarely hovering for more than a few seconds. I squeeze the trigger, and the gun jolts in my hands. I stagger back and lift my arms again. It’s nearly impossible to pin a tracker in the gun’s sights. We need Bade, with his ability to throw fire.

  A child cries. A boy with curls of dark hair twisted around stone talismans. A tracker darts after him, and Roran bolts in front of it.

  “Get down!” he shouts. Massive crystals jut from the ground, arching over the child. The tracker tags Roran with an ionic mark; we can’t see it, but it illuminates on every screencom, every scanner.

  “Roran!” I shout.

  The forest floor rumbles beneath my feet. A Mod descends, blocking the sunlight. I stand in its shadow and point my gun at its thruster. A tracker explodes beside me, and bits of metal rain down. My ears ring. I turn, disoriented. Smoke fills the clearing; I try to see past it.

  “Roran!”

  The glade is chaos. Conjies flee in every direction. I search through the haze, but the Mod’s gone. So is Roran. I didn’t even see it happen.

  Another Mod approaches, and I lift my gun.

  “Wait.” Dram catches my arm. “That one’s for me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Rye. A leader stays with his people.”

  “You’re not their leader.”

  “Bade left me in charge. I need to go with them to processing, do whatever I can to help them.”

  “These aren’t our people.”

  His eyes soften. “They are. In
every way that matters.”

  They are. I know this, but as I watch Dram slip off his camo-cloth and shove it into my pack, I know I will do anything to hold on to him. Even forsake the people who’ve sheltered us. Mods descend around us, their engines drowning out the cries of people I’ve come to know as family.

  “This is our fault,” Dram says. “I won’t abandon them.”

  “What if Jameson can’t get you out?”

  “Then you’ll have to.”

  “Like I did for the others?” My voice breaks.

  “You’ll find a way.” He pulls something from his pocket and shoves it into my hand. The bloodied Strider patch his father sent. “Keep this,” he says. “In case it means more than I think it does.” I stuff the patch into my pocket and grip his arms.

  “Your body can’t take more exposure!”

  “I’ve got one more light.” He lifts his wrist, where his Radband pulses a faint amber.

  “I’ve lost everyone!” I bite the words out. “Don’t ask me to give you up, too.” His lips are cold as he presses his mouth to mine.

  “Find Bade,” he says. “Then find us.” He cups my face. “Find me, Scout.” Scout. A name he’s called me since the day it became my title back in Outpost Five.

  But now it means something more.

  He walks toward the smoke of burning, whirring trackers, the cries of Conjies being restrained and taken up into the droning crafts. I bite my lip to block the scream I feel building in my throat. Everything inside me urges me to run after Dram, to drag him back to safety.

  We spent our whole lives mining the deadly tunnels to earn our freedom, and the Congress sent us to die in the cordons when we discovered it was all a lie. We survived and made our way beyond the flashfall. Now Dram’s going back, willingly giving himself up. If anyone can show them how to survive, it’s him. And if anyone can find a way to free them—

  It’s me.

  I stand frozen, tears streaking my cheeks, as a Mod’s light beam swings over Dram. He stills, his broad shoulders hunched as his gaze drops to the ground. He doesn’t watch the pod descend upon him.

  “No.” My voice is a whispered cry. Trackers whirl past me, swirling about the chaos. I drop, crouching in the snow, but not a single drone comes close. Maybe they sense the ice inside me, the parts of me deadening as I watch Dram swept off his feet by a metal arm. The machine tackles him to the snow, and all the breath leaves my chest, as if my lungs are linked to his. He flinches, from the particles in the snow and from the metal clasping his wrists behind his back. A syringe plunges into his arm, even as another metal appendage draws a sample of his blood.