21The shelter flies up in a billow of fabric, propelled skyward by the simultaneous pull of eight repulsor magnets embedded in the tent’s ceiling pushing invisibly against their counterparts in the floor. The walls momentarily sag, then tauten as more magnets pull them gently into shape. A seam along the front wall, nearly invisible against the smooth fabric, outlines an entrance, while more seams along the sides reveal windows. The whole shelter, from the domed top down to the anchored corners, glows pale gray in the late morning sun. Already the solar skin embedded in the fabric is going to work.
“Aahh! It’s up, it’s up!”
“Oh my stars! It’s amazing!”
I smile slightly at the girls’ excited squeals and take a step back to survey our new home. At only six meters square, it’s not exactly a luxury suite, but no one’s complaining. Far from it. Between the waterproofing and the insulation, it’ll be both drier and cooler than sleeping out on the Rainforest floor, and if the solar skin is as efficient as I hope, we may even be able to charge small items with the energy it collects.
A dragonwisp lands on my arm, and I flick it away with a snort. Not to mention the added bonus of not waking up with creepy-crawlies all over you.
Off to my right, a second tent goes up with a whoosh, followed soon after by a third and fourth shelter just beyond it. Elated chatter breaks out with each new tent to arise, the boys no more immune to the excitement of new tech than the girls, and I can’t help marveling at the irony of the situation. If I’d told them back before the invasion that we would be camping in tents and eating ration paks in the Rainforest, the complaints would’ve been endless. Now, after five weeks of stumbling around in the rain, starving and sleeping on the ground, a proper camp with tents and ration paks is like heaven on Iolanthe.
“What’s wrong with your tent, Jovan?” Vida calls from the shelter next to mine.
“Yeah, don’t you know the ceiling’s supposed to go on top?” Xylla adds, to a chorus of chuckles.
I turn my gaze to the object of their heckling. All of the eight shelters are up now with the exception of Jovan’s, which looks like it’s been on a three-week bender. Half the ceiling is collapsed, and two of the walls are stuck together at odd angles. Jovan is striding around the tent in consternation, cursing in annoyance, while Trey and Ri pluck helplessly at the fabric as if afraid the whole thing will collapse any second.
An amused smile toys at my lips. Figures. They must have just shoved the magnets into random pockets instead of following the instructions.
“I dunno, it just happened like this,” Trey says, accompanied by a hapless shrug from Ri.
Jovan frowns. “No fair! We got the busted one.”
“Too bad, Jovan. I guess you have to be this smart”—Vida taps her own temple—“to ride the ride.” She pats the front of her own perfectly erected shelter as proof, a wicked smile on her face. More chuckles break out at her good-natured teasing, and after a second, even Jovan puts on a sheepish grin.
“Help me, baby?” he asks Vida with a wink.
“Mayyybe,” she says, drawing out the word as she slowly saunters over to him. “What’ll you do for me if I do?”
He leans down and whispers in her ear. Vida lets out a throaty laugh. I roll my eyes as off-again becomes on-again for about the millionth time, but it’s more from habit than genuine feeling. The truth is, there’s an air of elation about this place, an infectious joy that’s taken hold and won’t let go. Everywhere I turn, I see smiles and backslapping, hear jokes and laughter. Not just the simple camaraderie found among students, but so much more—the soul-unburdening relief of losing our pursuers; the jubilant pride that we’ve made it this far; and a shining optimism that the days to come will be better than the days that have passed. Even I feel it, though there are a hundred concerns still lurking in the back of my mind, and I know we’re far from being out of the woods.
Out of the woods. I laugh. As if there is such a thing on Iolanthe!
A whoop of triumph rings out as, with a few switches of the magnets, the final tent goes up. As if on cue, everyone makes a mad dash for the shelters. Bodies are jostled and elbows thrown as students scramble to get spots in their preferred tents, while all the while an inundated Xylla and Mario hand out vacuum-packed pillows and bedrolls as fast as they can. Feeling a mild responsibility to show some leadership, I stand at the entrance to the tent I just pitched and attempt to enforce some semblance of order on the seething mob.
“Hey, quit shoving! There’s enough room for everyone. Remember, five to a tent. That’s five, Vida, not three. Find two more roommates, or you’ll get stuck with me! Come on, people! We don’t have all day. Pick a tent, or I’ll pick one for you!”
“What if you don’t like where you end up?” Amilee whines.
“There’s always room on the forest floor,” I shoot back. “Hey, Ri!” I add as one of Jovan’s buddies tries to sneak into one of the girls’ shelters. “As I said before, we’re not having coed tents! Go find a spot with the guys!”
“Better listen to her,” Trey shouts, “or she might throw a demo at you!”
Laughter rings out at the dig, along with an assortment of approving comments and admiring grins. I smile ruefully at the praise. Ever since the incident at the river a week ago, I haven’t heard the end of it. Not because of the raid, though the incursion did allow us to walk off with a camp’s worth of supplies in one shot, but because of what came after, at the bridge. Throwing that charge turned me into a veritable rock star. When the others returned to the bank, drawn by the boom of the explosion and the subsequent hail of debris, shock and disbelief soon turned to widespread awe and admiration. Even Jovan, one of my biggest detractors since this whole invasion began, was impressed, letting out a low whistle and reluctantly admitting, “That was badass.”
Who knew blowing up a bridge would bring me so much cachet?
Certainly not me. My only intention when I threw that demo charge was to lose our pursuers—a plan that seems to have worked. We saw neither hide nor hair of ghouls or squatters in the two weeks it took us to get here. No surprise, as the enemy’s true interest lies in those underground bunkers around the town and whatever’s in them. As for my unexpected rise in popularity, well . . .
I smile slightly. I’m not exactly complaining.
“Can I room with you?”
At Divya’s tentative request, I raise both eyebrows in mild surprise. Though we were roommates for a semester, we’ve never been close. If anything, I figured she’d try to grab a spot with Vida’s crew. I eye her narrowly for a moment, but if she still harbors any of the bitter resentment she exhibited after our flight from the academy, I don’t see it. In fact, the expression on her face is uncomfortably akin to hero worship. With a shrug, I wave at the entrance flap. “Have at it.”
Divya grins and rushes off to grab her bag.
The free-for-all to decide where everyone sleeps ends soon after, helped along by a few pointed threats on my part to start assigning people spots. When the chaos finally settles, I turn to the girls I’ve collected. Along with Divya and me are Mario, Megumi, and Hegit. With a game smile, I gesture to the door. “So, who’s first?”
Smiles and squeals break out as they all rush for the entrance. I linger just outside, preferring to let them sort out the exact arrangements rather than get caught in the crush, and look out over the camp. We’ve settled in a small glade situated along the bank of one of the Shoqua’s many tributaries. At the northeast end of the clearing, a little waterfall breaks over a rocky outcrop to pool in a shallow pond before flowing on into the Rainforest. Flora of all kinds grows along the banks, stretching out on either side in a tangled labyrinth of shrubs, grasses, flowers, and vines. Only the trees hang back, kept at bay by a bed of rock running under this section of river, though their branches still loom and curl above us in a loose canopy—enough to shelter us from aerial view but still allow the suns to shine through.
Satisfaction fills me as I regard our new home. I found this hidden gem during one of my many searches through the geographical survey scans I snagged on our first shelter raid. At roughly ten klicks east of the Shoqua, we’re far enough from town to stay off the enemy’s radar while still being close enough to make forays into the settlements when necessary. Add in the facts that we’re situated next to a fresh water source and are well hidden beneath the canopy, and it’s the perfect place to set up house.
Perfect. A soft breeze rustles across my cheek, and I involuntarily tilt my face up to the suns like a flower, a smile slowly stretching from ear to ear as I drink in the warmth of the sun and sweetness of the air . . .
“Teal?”
At Mario’s hail, I quickly drop my face, surprised and not a little guilty at being caught this way. “Hmm?”
“We put you in the front, since you like to get up early.” She nods to a bedroll and pillow neatly laid out in the corner beside my backpack. She motions to a bag by my feet. “Did you want me to bring that in too?”
At her question, a shadow falls over me. My sunny mood evaporates, replaced by a frisson of anxiety. I quickly snatch the bag up, shaking my head a little too emphatically as I struggle to remain casual. “No, this just has some supplies for . . .” I wave my hand vaguely in the direction of the camp.
Mario nods, sensing nothing amiss, and disappears back into the tent. Heart tripping, I glance down at the bag and then out at the camp. Everyone is so focused on the new shelters, not a single eye is on me. Realizing I’m never going to get a better chance to slip away unseen, I activate my chit and quickly remove myself from the chit locator network. Then slinging the bag over my shoulder, I take one more glance around and slip off into the Rainforest.
After the brightness of the clearing, the forest is dark, almost eerie in the dimming light of the afternoon. I glide through the trees, searching not for a destination so much as—
A hiding place.
I spot the tree just a hundred meters out of camp—far enough to stay off everyone’s radar but still close enough to be accessible on relatively short notice. The roots gnarl and twist like great knuckles tapping across the ground, leaving multiple gaps between tree and earth, and I immediately know this is the right spot. Kneeling beside one of the openings, I unpack my bag.
Stunners, machetes, decimators, demo charges—each item that comes out is more dangerous than the last. It’s the haul I took from the emergency shelter’s armory. I had intended to keep it a secret, an ace in the hole if ever the chips were down, but my little stunt with the bridge made that impossible. Now, with more than one person eyeing them, it’s imperative that I get these weapons out of camp before someone gets injured or—vacuum forbid!—killed by a careless student on an ego trip.
Glancing around to make sure I’m still alone, I begin sealing the ordnance up in duro-wrap. Waterproof and strong, the material should keep the weapons safe and in good condition during their sojourn in the jungle. Once everything is wrapped, I load it carefully back into the bag, which I slide under the roots, pushing it deep down until it’s out of sight. Still not satisfied, I hunt around until I find a largish stone, just big enough to fit across the opening. A sprinkling of loose leaves and dirt go over that, and a homing chit—to ensure I can find this place again—goes into the trunk. Sitting back on my heels, I survey my work and nod. Perfect. No one would ever know anything was there.
My work finished, I’m about to stand when something cool presses against the small of my back. Still on my knees, I freeze as the realization suddenly hits me: I forgot one. The decimator that’s been tucked into the back of my waistband ever since the day I looted the armory. I’ve become so accustomed to its presence that it completely slipped my mind.
I hesitate, fingers drumming lightly on the roots before me. I should dig everything up again so I can hide this decimator with the rest. It’s the logical thing to do . . . but I’m hot and sweaty, and undoing all my hard work is the last thing I feel like doing right now. Besides, I’m out of duro-wrap anyway. As long as I keep it on me at all times, the decimator should be safe enough, and even if anyone should chance to see it, they’ll just assume it’s a stunner. Only a close look would reveal it to be anything more.
Decision made, I rise to my feet and shoulder my empty backpack. Now that my task is complete, I feel curiously light—effervescent, even, as though I’ve unloaded more than just a bag full of weapons. I smile suddenly, not for any particular reason but just . . . because.
Humming softly to myself, I pivot smartly on one heel and head back to camp.
Finding the clearing and pitching the tents is only the start. Over the next week, we work around the clock to fix up our forest home, cutting back flora, setting up facilities, and organizing supplies. Our collective efforts pay off quickly, and it’s not long before this place starts to feel like a real camp. The worst of the undergrowth is cleared away, cut down to manageable levels that actually allow us to walk through the camp without wading hip-deep in a sea of greenery, and hygiene facilities—complete with the promised toilet paper—have been erected south of the camp in the privacy of the woods. Tarps strung up by the waterfall, each outfitted with soap and shampoo, serve as makeshift shower stalls, and a modest “kitchen” area stocked with a few weeks’ worth of food has been created at the base of a tree farther down the bank. We even have some modest security. Our fledging force fence, made up of portable posts stolen from the emergency shelter, went up this morning, along with several mini cameras placed at strategic points along our perimeter.
I set up the security feeds in my tent, using two tip-pads to display them at all times. A third pad displays the force fence network. The girls grumble a bit when I push their sleeping mats over to clear a space for my “desk”—a small camping chair set behind a foldable packing crate—but I hardly mark it. Morale is so high right now I could bring an Ioguar into the tent with barely a peep.
Taking a seat at my desk, I type several commands into the pads to initiate the filter program. For the next fifty-four hours, it’ll record, analyze, and identify all the local flora and fauna from the feeds. From there, it will create a database of known organisms in the area, which will then be used to define the parameters of the security program. From then on, anything passing into the feed that doesn’t match the database will be flagged, and an alert will be sent to my chit. This way, I’ll be able to monitor the security network without staring at the feeds 27/7.
That completed, I lean back in my chair and try to remember what’s next on the list. Let’s see . . . tents, showers, hygiene facilities—all done. Force fences, cameras, security—again, all completed inasmuch as they can be. The vegetation has been curbed—for now at least—the food supply is inventoried and secured from animals, and the weapons are stashed. Even the chore roster has been completed—nothing complex, just the simple tasks needed to keep the camp running, like food distribution and plant management. So what does that leave? I rack my brain, suddenly laughing as I realize:
Everything’s done.
I frown, barely able to wrap my head around the sheer absurdity of having absolutely nothing to do. Even when we were on the run, I was rarely still, religiously using our short breaks to scout our position or calculate our most pressing risks. We’ve fled an invasion, hiked over a hundred klicks through the forest, raided two shelters, escaped squatters and ghouls, blown up a bridge, created a secure camp complete with food and shelter, and all so I could end up here in this pleasantly cool, state-of-the-art tent contemplating the possibility that I might just have . . . free time?
The very idea makes me let out a snort. The concept of free time is more alien to me than the Specs themselves. Maybe there’s nothing left on my list, but that doesn’t mean the others don’t need help. Putting down my tip-pad, I go in search of everyone else.
The first person I see when I emerge from the tent is Mario, curled up under a tree with her tip-pad. She looks up as I pass, gracing me with a brief smile before going back to her book. With a nod, I move on, noting the raucous laughter coming from the neighboring shelter. A few more steps, and the voices reveal themselves as those of Vida and her posse. Gossip and girl talk seem to be the order of their day, and from the sounds of it, something similar is going on in the boys’ tent just beyond.
Stepping away, I resume my path through the camp; however, it soon becomes clear that everyone else is reveling in their newly minted free time, and it’s only me who itches for something more to do. Rather than go back to my tent, I wander over to a quiet spot along the riverbank. Flowers grow there in a profusion of color, each one a shade so vivid it makes all manmade colors seem pale by comparison. A soft wind is blowing across the water, and I lift my face slightly to catch the breeze.
As I stand there in the light of the setting suns, something takes off from a nearby flower, fluttering quietly up through the dawning evening. I watch it as it wafts in a lazy path upon the humid currents. It’s a solar-flit. Similar to an old Earth butterfly, with its cylindrical body and jewel-like wings, but unlike its Tellurian counterpart, this creature derives the majority of its sustenance, not from nectar, but from the suns, collecting solar energy through its colorful wings and converting it to food. Judging from the neon glow of its turquoise wings, this solar-flit has spent all day sunning itself on a friendly flower and now has only to find a safe harbor for the night.
I drink in the sight, expecting it to fly off through the canopy any moment, but to my surprise, it circles down through the air to land on my shoulder. All other thoughts evaporate from my mind as I take in the tiny creature before me. It’s heavier than I expected, with clawed feet that pluck at my skin like tiny pinpricks. I slowly inch my head around, keeping my movements small lest I scare it away, and look at it fully. Though it’s taken up a perch firmly on my shoulder, its wings still beat lightly to and fro, so hot they warm the air around them before wafting it softly against my cheek.
From the corner of my eye, I see another flit rise up from its place farther down the bank. I hold my breath, barely daring to believe it when the second one—a fiery beauty in red and gold—alights on my other shoulder. A strange feeling bubbles up inside of me as I behold its perfection, pushing against my chest until I feel like I might burst. I press my lips together, trying to hold it back, but I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face. A small noise, somewhere between a laugh and a cry, slips from my mouth, and both flits stir, leaping from my shoulders to take to the air. On instinct, I reach out my hands to them. As if on cue, a whole host of solar-flits suddenly takes flight from the bank, swirling up in a kaleidoscope of color that glitters and gleams in the lowering light. They flutter around me in a whirl of light and color and heat until I can’t tell where the sunlight ends and they begin.
Stunned, all I can do is stare at the flits in mute beguilement. Then all of a sudden, the moment breaks. I throw back my head and laugh, giggles pouring out of my mouth like a million tiny bubbles of carbonation rippling up into the sky. More laughter follows, bounding from my lungs as though it has springs, and it’s only then that I realize I’m not laughing for humor.
I’m laughing for joy. Pure, unadulterated, cosmic joy.
The realization should be enough to sober me, but it doesn’t. Instead, I just stand in the column of swirling solar-flits and laugh and laugh as though I haven’t a care in the universe. Because for the first time since the Specs invaded all those weeks ago—no, for the first time since Lia went up in a blaze of light more than two years ago—I feel like I don’t.