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  “We told you,” Aisla says. “Arrun’s good at stealing things—”

  “Armies?”

  Bade grins. “Take them down from the inside. It’s a good plan.”

  “Why would Striders support a rebellion?”

  “Because Arrun’s not recruiting them from Alara. He’s in the outlier regions—the Trades. If there’s a place beyond the flashfall to inspire resentment against the Congress, it’s there.”

  “The Trades?” I ask.

  “A series of compounds along the coast,” Bade answers. “It’s where Alara’s youth are sent when they come of age. They train and test to earn a place in the protected city. It’s brutal. I’ve heard stories—”

  “What if you’re wrong about the message?” Dad asks. He motions toward the patch. “What if it’s just blood?”

  “Then we move forward anyway,” Newel says. “We do what we can to save our people. We fight.”

  “Not even Jameson can get close to the cure,” Dad says. “Not enough of it. The Prime Commissary moved all major stores of it to an underground compound in the Overburden. It’s overseen by a Subpar commissary there.” These are details he gave me as we staggered here, leaning into each other, talking when we had the strength for it.

  “Even if we were to forge an attack on the council’s Central Tower,” Bade says, “I’m not sure we could get hold of it. It’s the most closely guarded resource in Alara.”

  “That’s why I’m not going to fight my way into Alara,” I say softly.

  “Where else would you get it?” Newel asks.

  “The last place they’d ever expect me to go. The Overburden.”

  Dad makes a sound and hunches over, his head in his hands. He’s barely spoken since I told him my idea. I know it’s because his analytical mind is calculating scenarios, probabilities, estimating my chances of succeeding. The fact that he hasn’t said anything about it tells me my chances are slim.

  “The place you’re speaking of is a closely guarded secret,” Aisla says. “It’s called Fortune. Not even Striders can enter. Only Delvers who’ve earned their way.”

  “What are Delvers?”

  “They scout paths through the caverns beneath the Overburden,” Aisla answers.

  Her explanation hangs in the air, an invisible bridge between where we are and where we might be if we choose this plan.

  “They could arrest you the moment they figure out who you are,” Bade says. A flash of his earlier heaviness returns, flitting across his expression like a shadow. I know he’s thinking of Dram—of what the Congress might do to the son of Arrun Berrends.

  “Not if I’m valuable to them. I’ll get into this underground fortress. I’ll find where they’ve stockpiled the cure.”

  “It could work,” Aisla says.

  “It could fail horribly,” Bade says. “There are too many unknown variables.”

  “If we manage to get her inside,” Dad asks, “how long will it take you to raise forces enough to get them out?”

  Bade glances at Aisla. “A few days, a few weeks—it all depends.”

  “How long can people survive in the Overburden?” I ask.

  Bade lifts a brow and says sardonically, “A few days, a few weeks—it all depends.”

  Dad’s gaze slips to my Radband glowing yellow. He doesn’t say anything.

  “Past fear lies freedom,” I say softly. “Graham used to say that.”

  “Well, then,” Bade says. “Let’s find out if it’s true.”

  * * *

  I sit cross-legged on a sunlit, loamy patch of ground. The snow has melted away, and I push my hands into the dirt, allowing my Subpar senses to take in the full spectrum of elements: natural, earthy, and alive.

  I am still saying good-bye.

  I lean forward and rest my cheek on the ground, squinting as pine needles push against my face. I’ve seen Dram do this, watched him in secret and laughed inside at his wild Conjie ways. I didn’t understand.

  I think maybe now I do.

  Good-bye.

  After a time, I sit up. I reach inside my shirt and lift my memorial pendants. The Conjies have talismans. I suppose these are mine. One at a time, I fill them with this sun-warmed soil, the earth of the provinces, as the Conjies call it. Wherever I go, I’m taking it with me.

  A reminder that I have known life beyond the flashfall.

  A promise that I am coming back.

  * * *

  If I’m going to get myself caught by the Congress, I might as well make it count.

  I study the device in my hand, one of the Congress’s “toys” we pulled off the Conjies sent to hunt us. Not as powerful as a flash wand, Bade told me when he explained how to activate the grenade-like tech. He asked me to create a distraction, something to draw the Congress’s attention, so he and Aisla could more easily slip past the boundaries of the provinces into the outlier regions.

  I twist the device and it whines to life, gleaming with red light as I throw it toward the charging station beside the tree Roran conjured. I turn and run, Bade’s warning ringing in my ears. Red means dead, so when you see that light, Orion, sprint like hell. You’ll have about five seconds.

  Boom!

  A concussive wave knocks me off my feet with a sound I feel as much as hear. I cover my head as shards of wood fall around me along with a hail of debris. Wood groans and cracks and melds with the sounds of metal screeching. The ground thunders beneath me as a part of the disk-shaped platform slams into the dirt. Then—

  Silence.

  From the force of that blast, I’m expecting to look back and see nothing but a scorched pit of earth, so my heart sinks when I stand and see the skeletal remains of the station and the tree.

  The device blew apart most the trunk and the base of the Mod station. The tree leans like it just needs a strong push to send it the rest of the way over.

  Something sharp to take out that last bit of wood.

  I jog toward the station, a smile blooming on my face.

  I lift Dram’s pickaxe and swing the blade as hard as I can at the tree Roran conjured. Wood chips away as I drive it into that last tether. Branches shudder against the platform. If I take this tree down, it will take the station with it.

  With every strike, I replay the moments when the Mod went after Roran.

  And when the Mods went after us all.

  Thwack! My arms strain against the weight of the axe striking the wood. I think of how I’m using Dram’s pickaxe for the very last time, and how fitting this is.

  I promise myself that I’ll find him somehow in the Overburden, and tell him that the last swings of his axe were made taking down a Mod platform. He’ll shake his head, and grin with that dent in his cheek, and I’ll know there are still ways I surprise him.

  Thwack!

  The tree cracks and leans, and I lurch back as its momentum carries it over, slamming against the platform. Chunks of debris hurtle down as the Congress’s last charging station tumbles into the dirt.

  Come and find me.

  The Congress will be here soon.

  I don’t have to wait long. Beyond the treetops, a glint of metal, a rumble like mountains shifting. Fear dances across my nerves as it descends.

  This one’s mine.

  Dram’s words echo through my memories as the Mod approaches, arms reaching. It drops pulse trackers, but I’m not running anywhere. They surround me, whining, glinting in the sunlight. I have never let them get so close. Doubt flitters through my mind, but I force myself to stand unflinching as a tracker marks me. Seconds later, the Mod’s arm ensnares me with more force than I was expecting. The jab of a needle, a cold pinch, and then sudden lifting, the ground falling away beneath me.

  “Subpartisan,” a voice drones. I’m deposited into the craft, my limbs mechanically arranged before bars clamp across my torso and legs. The pod closes overhead. “Cargo secured. Proceeding to processing.”

  The thrusters rumble beneath me.

  I scream into the
darkness.

  EIGHT

  11.6 km from flash curtain

  THE POD OPENS with a concussive blast of air.

  I blink against the glare of overhead lights. I’ve landed in some sort of hangar. A Strider reaches inside before my bonds have finished releasing.

  “Hurry!” he says under his breath. He taps buttons in the console of the Mod, illuminating a panel I didn’t know was there.

  “Subpartis—” The machine-like voice seems to melt. He taps more keys, and it stutters into silence.

  “Come on!” He pulls me from the pod. I’m so shocked by his demeanor that I don’t resist. My feet are numb from the restraints, and I fall against him. My body stiffens in anticipation of a shock that doesn’t come.

  “My armor’s muted,” he murmurs. “Can you run?”

  I snort-laugh. Flash me, they’ve given me shock inhibitors. I feel a giggle bubbling past my lips.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” he mutters. He bends, scooping me into his arms.

  “This is so strange,” I announce loudly.

  “Quiet,” he hisses.

  “Shhh!” I say. Then I turn it into a sort of tune.

  “They warned me you might be like this, but I didn’t believe them.”

  “Who?”

  “Walsh!” a Strider calls.

  My escort dumps me behind a row of shelves.

  “What?” he calls.

  “Central reported a Subpar contained in the provinces. Should’ve been in Mod four-five.”

  “I emptied that pod. Just another Conjie. She’s in binders in holding cell two.”

  I peek from between a row of boxes in time to see the Strider’s look of confusion. He turns and jogs back the way he came.

  Walsh crouches beside me and pulls a tablet from his sleeve pocket. “Put this under your tongue.”

  “Why?” My head sways as I study the flat, round pill.

  “Because I can’t carry you where you need to go. And if you start singing again, we’re dead.”

  I place it under my tongue.

  “Good,” he says. “No more singing.” He fastens a pair of binders over my hands and lifts me to my feet.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Not holding cell two.”

  He guides me around a corner, and I gasp. A sign marks the entrance to the Overburden with flashfall exposure warnings.

  “Your ride’s about to leave. You have a better chance out there together.”

  “Together?”

  “With your … what do you cavers call it? Marker?”

  Dram.

  My heart pounds.

  He herds me along a ramp that leads into a large metal-barred containment unit. Striders with flash rifles line the sides, their weapons pointed toward the group of Conjies huddled within. Walsh releases me.

  “Run hard,” he murmurs.

  “What?”

  “Something we say in the Trades.”

  The Trades. I whirl back, but he’s already jogging back toward the hangar. The door seals with a hiss and the transport device lurches forward. I’m jostled against the bars as it gains speed over the cordon sands.

  “Holy fire.”

  I turn at the sound of Dram’s voice. He stares at me, eyes wide with horror. I wend my way past Conjies hunched in groups and throw my arms around him.

  “How did you get caught?” he asks.

  “I chopped down Roran’s tree with your pickaxe and took out the charging station.” He mutters a series of Conjie words. I bracket his face with my hands, wishing I could erase the hollowed-out look he’s wearing. “I pulled my dad from a crashed hover. Our Radbands are lies. You’re at red, Dram.” Tears slip down my cheeks, faster than my rambling explanations. Because this, more than anything else, scares me. That whatever we do—if we manage to get the cure out of the Overburden—it won’t be fast enough. Not for Dram.

  Cordon winds filter between the bars, and I shudder as particles abrade my skin. I taste ash on my tongue. I’m starting to think that what Graham said was wrong—that what lies past my fear is simply death. And worse—the deaths of people I love.

  Over Dram’s shoulder, between the bars, I can see the red tents Mere once told me about, and pitted metal signs marked PROCESSING. I rise onto my tiptoes and pull his head down so my lips are at his ear. “Your father’s in the Trades. Raising an army of Striders.” He pulls back, stares at me with wide eyes.

  I can give him this, at least. A bit of hope. His father is still alive. Still fighting.

  “The patch,” he murmurs. I nod. Morior invictus.

  We have a chance.

  If we can just survive what comes next. And the days after that.

  * * *

  The bars slide open, and Striders march us toward processing. They funnel us through a set of fences, and I throw my hands up, guarding my face against a gust of cordon wind. My survival instincts root me to the ground.

  The soldier motions for me to move, but I stand, fixed in place. I haven’t done this since I was nine and Graham had to rescue me from where I’d frozen in fear, mid-climb, above my first orbie pool.

  “The green acorn,” Dram calls from beside me, lifting his bound hands toward the talisman swaying near his temple. “It’s a promise. One I made to my father.” I realize he’s trying to distract me, the way he did down tunnel nine whenever my fear took hold. “A promise that I wouldn’t give up finding him until I saw his body or his ashes.”

  He walks forward, slowly, and I follow. One foot. Two.

  Step in my steps.

  “We’re not here to die,” he says at my ear. “We’re here to finish what we started, right?”

  I nod. Step. Step. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Don’t apologize for being afraid of things we should be afraid of.”

  I step. Breathe. It’s getting easier to walk.

  “And the new one?” I ask, looking up at his talismans. “The metal charm?”

  A soft smile spreads across his face. “That one’s for a promise I made to you.”

  “What was the promise?”

  His smile grows. “You’ll just have to wait and see, ore scout.”

  NINE

  7.4 km from flash curtain

  A MAN IN a gray uniform walks the length of our group, his eyes bouncing from one face to the next, like he’s analyzing some invisible data. He murmurs something to a Strider.

  “All men, come with me,” the soldier calls.

  “No—” I grasp Dram’s hand through the chain links of our binders. “Your Radband,” I gasp. The men are being ushered toward the curtain, and I’m terrified for him. His body can’t take more exposure.

  “Orion—” Dram leans down, his voice low, urgent. “Take off your bonding cuff first chance you get.” I stare at him, derailed by his train of thought. “They think we’re Conjies.”

  “But—”

  “They’ll cut off your hands, Orion!”

  He drags his bound hands through his hair and tears free the bit of birch wood, then the acorn. His kohl-lined eyes meet mine, and I don’t tell him that he still looks exactly like a free Conjie. He pulls at the sash tied at his hips, tears it off with a rending of silk. I glance at the bits of shell and carved wood I sewed on it myself, crushed underfoot as I’m jostled away from him. He shoves back and reaches for me. Cold metal presses my cheeks, and the cirium links pinch my skin as his bound hands draw me close.

  “Find a way out,” he says, and then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd.

  Dram. We’ve been pulled apart before, but this time there’s a finality to it. This time, he’s wearing an amber Radband and heading to a processing tent in the cordons.

  They steer me into a line where a grim-faced Gem walks from person to person, unlocking our binders. My fingers go to my bonding cuff. I haven’t taken it off since the day Dram placed it on my wrist. I follow his movement through the crowd as he’s herded toward a processing tent. He turns, and my gaze collides with his.
/>   His bonding cuff drops to the dirt.

  Take it off, he mouths.

  My fingers fumble at the interlocking bands. I remember when he twisted them into place. The night he showed me the stars.

  Hurry. Dram’s worried blue eyes follow me as I’m suddenly pushed forward.

  My cuff falls to the ground, and I watch as it’s trampled into the dirt.

  Step in my steps? I’d asked Dram that night.

  Always, ore scout.

  I search for him, but he’s lost from view, surrounded by Striders. Men shout and a current of unease ripples through the processing station. Men and women, dressed in uniforms I’ve never seen before, patrol the loading docks before the hovers. They don’t wear Radsuits or headpieces, and their sleeves are cut away to reveal the glowing symbols in their forearms.

  Gems. And yet … different. They carry no visible weapons, but the threat they emit is stronger than the Striders’.

  “What are they?”

  A girl at my side leans close and answers. “Vigils. From Ordinance.”

  Vigils. I remember Aisla drawing an inverted V in the snow. If you ever see this symbol on a Codev … run.

  A pair of them walk past, and they read each face like a screencom. I get the impression they’re evaluating data the rest of us can’t see. I duck my head, my heart pounding.

  Striders urge us toward the red tents, and all at once, I smell it: burning flesh. Bile rushes to my throat. I stumble, and the woman at my heels slams up against me.

  “Keep moving,” a Gem in a gray suit orders.

  I struggle to move, my legs two numb sticks, because now I can hear the screams. Mere told me once, in halting, spare words, of the day she was Tempered. It was the only time I saw her strength diminished, as if the weight of the experience was still too much for her to bear. I could barely stand to listen as she described the physics in red uniforms, the smell of cauterized stumps, the liquid burn of cirium injected through tubing into arms.

  Beside the canvas entrance, people lie on the ground where they’ve fainted from the procedure. I weave on my feet, unsure I’ll even make it that far.