THE MEETING AT THE designated drop point went as planned. Another brief encounter with another shady character in another dirty back alley. It only took forty minutes to make the delivery. It’s possible this information will ruin someone’s life.

It’s not something to take pleasure in, but I do like to eat, and the somewhat shady nature of my job is just a fact of life—my life. The world changed, but the people in it didn’t. The Robusts, at least, continue on as humanity always has. Deception, lies, betrayal, murder. There may no longer be any governments or major corporations in Etyom, but there is still every imaginable manner of trickery, falsity, and backstabbing. Information is still power—and money.

By midday my work is done. I take the time to go back and fix the bumper that threw me from the zip line earlier. A little sanding, a few adjustments, and it’s good to go. On the way back home, I take a detour through the market’s winding, narrow pathways filled with ramshackle stands and diminutive people to pick up some chiori meat, two smallish carrots, and a few herbs for dinner. It’s simple but makes for an easy and fairly hearty one-pot stew.

A squat woman at a makeshift stand pushes a small cloth pouch toward me. “Krig? Krig for a good price?”

I take the pouch and offer her a thin gold ring that came as a speedy-delivery bonus on top of the payment for my last job. The ring is worth fifty times the value of this pouch—but I give it anyway. The woman breaks into a beaming smile, the dirt and grime on her face framing the toothless pink of her gums. This simple ring will feed her family for a month.

“You ... you are an angel, sent from Yeos Himself.”

Don’t linger, Mila. Don’t care too much.

“Please. You come back anytime, dear. You can have as much krig as you want. Thank you.”

The state of my people, and my inability to do anything about it, cuts deep. Slowly, without so much as a whimper, our way of life is dying. All of them cling to the most basic of hopes and dreams: to get back to someplace warmer, and maybe if they’re lucky, into the embrace of someone who loves them.

This is my home. This is Logos—one of seven enclaves that make up Etyom. A small religious community, we are likely all that’s left of those who have been instructed in the ways of Yeos, the Lightbringer. We aren’t many, and we’re surrounded by enclaves that hate us.

Outside Logos are six other enclaves. Each one is isolated and autonomous, protected by a wall fifteen meters high and many meters thick. Nobody planned it like this. It’s the way people are, gravitating toward others who share their beliefs, their skin color, or their background. And in Etyom, by far the largest group is composed of Musuls. They occupy the largest enclaves: Baqir, Alya, and some of Kahanga.

Between the enclaves is a no-man’s-land. We call it, the Vapid. It’s a garbage-filled wasteland inhabited by Rippers, the outcasts of society. These people—the criminally minded, the violent, the psychotic predators of our communities—are expelled from their individual enclaves and forced into the Vapid because they can’t be trusted to live inside the walls. Out there, they have turned to barbarism, the better traits of their humanity lost in an effort to survive.

The setting sun dips just past the edge of the westernmost lillipad as I push past the heavy wooden door back into the warmth of Clief’s bar and the smell of flickering oil lamps. The botchi smoke is long gone, praise the Maker.

“Hey,” Clief says as he emerges from behind a curtain in the back. Looking like he just woke up, he coughs a few times into his sleeve. “You got a minute?”

“Are you sick?” I can’t help but shrink away.

“No, why?” he asks.

“You coughed.”

“Relax, Mila. It’s not the plague.”

“You never know. What did you want?”

“I just wanted to catch you before you hit the stairs. Did you hear about that stuff at the mine today?”

“What stuff?”

“You don’t know? Another two towl’eds got over the wall. Blew themselves up over by the entrance to the mine.”

“How many did we lose this time?”

“The word is almost thirty people, but a bunch of the dead and wounded were women and children. The bastards attacked while those poor people were having lunch with their families.”

“Yeos save us.” That old familiar heat rises inside, my teeth working against each other. Damnation. “It’ll never stop, Clief. Not until Logos is destroyed. You know that.” I’m sure he can see the life draining from my face. It takes a concerted effort to fight the swell of hate, to remember the voice of my brother asking me not to be so quick to judge others for the acts of a few. I take a moment before answering. “Want me to make a donation to the Vestals? Contribute some aid money from the bar?”

“Sure, Mila.” He nods. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

“I’ll take care of it.” I’m at the stairs but can feel he isn’t done. “Okay, cough it up. What do you want?”

“I uh ... I need you to ... fill in tonight.”

“Come on, Clief. You’ve got to give me a little more advance warning.”

“You’re getting your warning now. I need you tonight, Mila. Go take a nap. It’s gonna be busy.”

“Yeah, sure thing, Clief. You got it. I don’t mind working twenty-four-seven.”

“You’re a doll.”

“No, I’m not.”

Tired after the early morning with Bilgi and the job from Gil, the last thing I want to do is work tonight—but it’s part of the deal. I need this place, and part of the arrangement is I have to fill in when Clief needs me to. Do my part, and he minds his business. It’s a good arrangement.

The door to my room opens with a creak. My bag lands in the corner, along with my boots and jacket. The effects of sleep deprivation a physical weight upon my shoulders. I haven’t even flopped down on my cot before my eyes begin to close. Just a couple of hours’ sleep, please, Yeos. Maybe, just this once, I won’t dream.