7.2 km from flash curtain
CONGRESS NAMED THIS the pricking tent, as if we need a reminder of what happens here. We line up according to commissioning status and await our reward for the day’s work.
One cc of Dad’s cure. Enough to protect us for one day. I watch the needles plunging into arms and go through every new curse word I learned from Reuder. Dram and I nearly died to get this to our people, but not like this. Never like this. The cure for radiation poisoning was supposed to set everyone free, not act as grease for the Congress’s flash dust machine.
I study the squad groupings, thinking how clever the Congress was to alienate us from one another by infusing this system of hierarchy. Delvers at the top—I’m still uncertain what they do, as we only ever see them here—then Miners, Dodgers, and Brunts way down at the bottom. Even I have started to view Brunts as expendable—horrifying as it is—but five days collecting their remains has proven it so. The thought wedges in my chest, and I’m glad—glad I can still feel something, even if it’s shame. I make myself look at each one of their faces, and remind myself they are human beings with the same desperate hopes I have.
Before I fully realize it, I’ve stepped out of line, the Miners around me shooting me curious glances. I walk past the Dodgers, to the first Brunt in line. The Brunt, a man with hair just turning to gray, blinks at me like I’m an apparition. I wonder how long it’s been since someone looked in his eyes.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He hesitates, darting a glance at the Striders. “Michael.”
“I’m Orion.”
“I know who you are, Subpar.” He peels back the frayed hem of his sleeve. An indicator flashes burnt-orange.
A Radband. “You were a caver?”
“Outpost Four.” He turns his wrist, and I see something etched into the black biotech of his band. Two slanting lines. My breath catches. “Not much you can do for us from back here,” he says softly, tugging his sleeve back down. His gaze shifts to something over my shoulder. “Better return to your squad now, Scout.”
I hear the Strider approach behind me, armor buzzing. I let my gaze slide past Michael to the other Brunts trying to stay on their feet.
“Did you forget your place, Miner?” the Strider calls. A woman’s voice. I turn with surprise. I didn’t know the Congress commissioned female Striders.
“I know my place,” I answer, too loudly. The ghost of a smile twitches Michael’s lips. I meet the Strider’s eyes, but my words are for him. “I know my place.”
* * *
There is something off about one of the Miners in my squad. My scout senses break past my exhaustion, nagging at me like a child tugging on my sleeve. She’s not a Conjuror, or I’d sense the cirium in her Tempered limbs. No Radband pushes up the sleeve over her left wrist, so she’s not a Subpar. A Natural wouldn’t survive these Radlevels without a headpiece—and she rarely wears hers.
Reuder assigned us as partners, and we’re on our knees, sifting the sand, wedged close together with Dram and the other Dodgers forming a defensive ring around us. I sit back on my heels, studying her as she drags her sifter through the sand.
“It’s usually best to ask,” she says. “Otherwise, you’re only guessing at answers.”
“What?” I ask.
She pulls back her sleeve. Blue symbols and numbers glow beneath the skin on the inside of her forearm. A Gem.
“GM”—she points to the first letters—“to indicate genetically modified; one-six, which designates my specific conditioning; and these symbols here, to show my commissioning status.” She points to a faintly shimmering symbol. “This means Miner.” She says it without a hint of fear or misgiving—in a way that no other miner I know discusses service to Alara. “This is for the Overburden.” She touches the symbol beside it.
“What if you don’t want to mine the cordons for Ordinance?” I ask.
She shrugs. “They have other uses for me. But I’d never earn citizenship.”
Citizenship. “In Ordinance?”
Her violet eyes light up, vibrant as her Codev. “Alara,” she says.
“You understand what flash dust is, right?”
“I understand that some must die in order for others to live.”
“Well, then, I think you’ll fit in Alara perfectly.”
“Orion.” She grips my arm, giving me a hint of the superior strength in her grasp. “Nature has taken from us the ability to live in a perfectly moral and just society. People would die—either way.”
I slam my sifter in the sand. “You’re going to blame nature for this?”
“The Alaran Protocol is the reason your society survived. The commitment to keep exposure to the curtain’s radioactive particles ‘as low as reasonably achievable’ is the reason your city-state endured while so many others collapsed. To ensure the survival of many, some must be sacrificed.”
“Not so great for the people outside the protected city.”
“It is justifiable—”
“You see that kid?” I stab my finger in Roran’s direction. “The Congress considers what they did to him justifiable.”
“Compliance is essential for the preservation of civilized society.”
The only reason I don’t try to knock her onto her backside is that I’m pretty sure I’d fail. “You do belong in Alara,” I mutter. I stand, cordon sand streaming from my suit. “Find another partner.” I walk away, stepping past the other Miners on their hands and knees.
Reuder throws me a disgruntled look. “Return to your position, Miner.”
“No.”
Dram lowers his rifle and looks at me.
“Stay with your partner,” Reuder orders. “Work your grid.”
Dram gives me the look that tells me some things are more important than my pride, but it’s Roran’s expression that makes me turn back. A gust of wind brushes my talisman against my cheek.
I’m not a Conjuror.
You made a promise like one.
I drop to my knees and scowl at the horrible half human I’ve been assigned to. “Just so we’re clear,” I mutter under my breath, “if I see a cordon rat coming, I’m going to get out of its way and let it have you.”
GM16 shakes her sifter with methodical care. “I appreciate the warning, Subpar. But just so we’re clear—I have genetically modified blood that repels them.”