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“ARE YOU SERIOUS? This is your so-called secret entrance into Hoarderville?”
Amos hunched his shoulders, tucking his chin into his jacket collar, trying to stay warm. Mateo crouched beside him, sheltering behind a windswept outcropping of jagged rocks.
“Not my secret entrance, no,” he replied, his voice a terse monotone. He gestured to the gate at the far end of the man-made channel, filled with churning ocean waves. “This is one of the Enclave’s main seaports.”
The western side of the Enclave faced the open ocean, and a stiff offshore breeze magnified the pre-dawn chill. It had taken the better part of an hour, on foot, to reach their current vantage point. The service road running parallel to the Enclave’s southern face—abandoned after the completion of the wall—terminated at the ocean shoreline. They’d camouflaged Mateo’s truck as best they could, and picked their way over the rocky terrain to the nearest marine gate.
“Shipping is a vital factor in the Enclave’s economy,” Mateo said, his voice barely audible above the pounding surf. “This seaport’s existed since construction on the Enclave first began, two generations ago. I’m surprised it’s never occurred to you the Citizens would need to import supplies and raw materials.”
“Of course, it occurred to us,” Amos replied, resenting his patronizing remark. “We also knew the marine gate would be well-guarded. There wasn’t any reason to waste time hiking over rocks just to look at it.”
“The Enclave has always taken advantage of the sea routes to facilitate the importing and exporting of goods.” Mateo continued as if he hadn’t heard Amos’s acerbic response, settling into his familiar role of lecturer. “Not every Enclave has the good fortune to be situated on the coastline.”
Amos rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“I hope this doesn’t come as a shock.” He raised his voice to be heard above the waves. “But I’ve never been interested in how Hoarders do their hoarding. On the other hand, I’ve seen first-hand its effect on the rest of us.”
Mateo ignored his bitter comment. He dug into his pack and pulled out a pair of binoculars, offering them to Amos. “You’ll no doubt notice the similarities between this entrance, and Gate Seven.”
Steep rock walls flanked the channel on either side, a stark contrast to the pearly smooth surface of the Enclave’s walls. The sides of the passage were steep and devoid of vegetation, with the exception here and there of a stunted pine tree, clinging in defiance to the rocky slope.
Amos peered through the binoculars, adjusting the focus. The gate zoomed closer in the lenses, revealing the stark details he expected to see. “It’s got the same security as any other gate, which means guns. Lots of guns. What are they afraid of—a mutiny on one of their supply ships?”
“It was attempted once,” Mateo replied, as if he relished answering the question. “A ship was commandeered, and its crew was more than willing to join in—the level of animosity against the Enclave is quite pronounced. Their attempt to storm the gate was a complete and utter failure, and the savagery of the Citizens’ response has been a most effective deterrent.”
Amos lowered the binoculars, his resentment rising as he listened to Mateo’s dispassionate recounting of yet another Hoarder atrocity. “How can you expect us to work with people like that? I don’t trust them, and I don’t think they trust us, either. You’ve met Darcy—the guy’s certifiable.”
I could see it in his eyes. It’s always in the eyes.
“The Givers are your common enemy.” Mateo defaulted to his favorite mantra. “Why is this such a difficult concept? The Givers are embedding security chips in every Citizen. As a result, Darcy and his followers are desperate. They’ll no longer be able to move about freely. They need your help.”
The surf broke on the rocks, showering them with its salty spray. Mateo continued as the water receded. “I brought you here to infiltrate the Enclave. But once inside, where will you go? Do you know the Givers’ exact location or the stronghold they’ve built—their ‘Citadel’? Not every Citizen, or their Councilors, will appreciate our opposition to the Givers. Quite the contrary. People, in general, do not release their grip on power once they have it. The Council is no exception.”
Amos bit back a hot retort. It was best to not say anything further.
Mateo cocked his head to one side. He sounded irritated. “I could go on, but I believe I’ve made my point. You need each other. This small-minded bickering is a distraction from our true enemy: the Givers.”
“So, what’s your plan?” Amos handed the binoculars back, shielding his eyes as the rising sun peaked over the Enclave. “If a ship full of mutineers couldn’t get through, I’m not sure what the two of us can accomplish on foot.”
“Your tone of voice suggests a certain lack of confidence in my abilities,” Mateo replied, his dark eyes unwavering. “Or at the very least, the absence of basic respect between us. Do you think I haven’t taken all the variables into account?”
You picked a fine time to stop talking in riddles. Amos looked away, biting his tongue to avoid an unhelpful jibe. He squinted at the bright reflection of dawn on the ocean waves.
“Okay, okay, I get it,” he said at last, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “The Givers are the real enemy. But a lot of us have good reasons to hate the Hoarders—between Implants and Trackers, we’ve lost friends and family. You can’t expect us to stuff those memories as if they never happened.”
And my brother’s death is none of your business.
Mateo lifted his chin, looking down at Amos, his expression unchanged. Despite the growing daylight, Amos saw the faint glow of red around his left eye.
“I was content in my life as a shopkeeper,” Mateo said, not breaking eye contact. “Yet against my will, I was changed into a Tracker. To serve the Givers, or be executed.”
The red light winked out, restoring his human appearance. “Your craving for vengeance is an enemy equal to the Givers. I ask nothing of you, which I do not also require of myself.”
The wind gusted past them, bringing with it another dousing of salty spray. They remained at an impasse, crouched behind the rocks.
“I owe you an apology.” Amos found it hard to put into words. “I guess I never . . .”
Mateo stopped him with an upraised hand. “I do not seek an apology. You pay lip service to the idea of the Givers as our common enemy, but we’re about to enter their fortress. Your distrust of me is an impediment. Once we’re inside, the danger increases. Second-guessing me every step of the way is as risky to me as it is to you.”
Amos felt his cheeks flush. Busted, in mid-apology.
“Maybe I owe you two apologies.” He exhaled, watching for Mateo’s reaction. He gave none. “All right then, here’s the short version. You’re right—this can’t be about revenge. And we need to present a united front inside the Enclave.”
The words were difficult to say, and even harder to speak with conviction. I can’t lie to him—I have to make a choice. “We’ll do whatever’s necessary inside the Enclave, and we’ll do it as a team. I give you my word.”
Mateo ducked his head in a slight bow. “Agreed.”
Amos looked past him, peeking over the craggy ridge at the formidable weaponry above the marine gate. “Since I’m well-aware you have a plan in mind, how do we sneak into Hoarderville, if not by sea?”
Mateo eyed him, not turning to look down the channel. “I trust your ability to feign sincerity will improve with more practice.”