The Earth Dwellers Read online

  The medical building is eerie at night, even more so because it’s so brightly lit and yet so empty. Surely there’s illness and accidents in the New City. Surely the residents need medical attention sometimes, even at night. Perhaps this is only for the army, whose actions, according to Wilde, have been confined to searching for the Tri-Tribes. Nothing particularly dangerous. No casualties, no injuries. Thus, an empty army medical ward at night.

  I pass through a wide room labeled Eatery. There are long rows of white tables, benches on either side of them, attached with metal piping. I’m partway across when I hear it. Music. Well, sort of. Someone singing, just loud enough for the sound to carry through the unoccupied hallways.

  Do I run in the other direction?

  It’s a woman’s voice and I need a chip.

  I make for the singing, crossing the rest of the cafeteria on tiptoes. Down another passage, the singing getting louder, clearer:

  Rest, my darling,

  Sleep, my darling,

  Dream your cares away,

  Do not fuss,

  Do not cry,

  The night is here to stay.

  It’s coming from one of the rooms branching off from the hall I’m now in, but I can’t tell which one, the echoes distorting the direction of the sound.

  First room, door closed. Move on.

  Next room, open. Peek inside. Empty, except for shelves of supplies. A bucket. A mop. Cleaning liquids.

  Third room, also closed. Singing getting louder still:

  Travel down roads of gold,

  My darling, Charity,

  Don’t be scared, for you are bold,

  Find your way back to me.

  A lullaby. I recognize it. My mother sang it to me when I was little. A moon dweller lullaby. Could this woman be…a moon dweller? Tristan said many moon and star dwellers were tricked into coming above, to be used as the servants of the earth dwellers. To do all the work that the migrant sun dwellers didn’t want to do—that they weren’t used to doing. Cleaning, trash collection and disposal, food preparation…

  I peek in the fourth room and she’s there, holding a mop, dabbing it in a water-filled bucket, squeezing it out. Sweeping it back and forth in circles on the floor, until the surface shines under the fluorescent lights. Wearing white linen pants and a white shirt, blond hair spilling down her back. Clearly not a soldier. Her back is to me. A cleaner. A servant. A chip.

  Would anyone miss this woman? Maybe, but not the same way they’d miss an officer. Has fate brought me to her to use for my purposes? Do I have it in me to cut her open, to spill her blood, to stain her brilliantly white clothes? My earlier silent promise to myself rattles through my head. Whatever I have to do…

  I take a soundless step inside the room and she goes on mopping the floor, whistling now.

  My fingers tighten on the knife in my belt, brush against the gun strapped beside it. Hot blood rushes through my veins, my heart pounding.

  I take another step, my shadow trailing behind me.

  A noise, high-pitched but not overly loud, rings out. Sort of throaty.

  I freeze, take two quick steps back into the hallway. Duck behind the doorframe.

  The woman stops whistling, props her mop against the wall. “Hush, my darling,” she coos, stepping to the side and reaching down over the railing of a small bassinet on wheels that I hadn’t noticed while focusing on the woman.

  She picks up a child, a baby, no more than a few months old. Gently, ever so gently, she rocks it in her arms, once more singing the moon dweller lullaby, whisper soft.

  I hold my breath the whole way through, barely blinking, entranced. When she places the baby back in the portable bed, I empty my lungs, the sound louder than I expected it to be.

  The woman turns sharply, startled. “Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was here.” She looks embarrassed, guilty, like she’s the one who’s not supposed to be here, rather than me.

  “I’m,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, like a soldier, “just making my rounds.”

  She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. A grim smile. What is she so worried about? Surely being here is her job.

  “I—I know I’m not supposed to bring Charity to work, but I—” Her voice trails away as she looks at the baby sleeping beside her.

  “Rules are rules,” I say in the sternest voice I can muster. I realize my hand’s still on my knife. Was I really considering slicing this woman open, potentially killing her? Baby or no baby, have things gotten so far out of control that I’d do that? Hurt an innocent woman?

  “My husband—he’s not well. He can’t look after her while I’m at work. He can barely look after himself. I don’t have any other choice,” the woman pleads.

  Does it matter if this woman dies? I wonder. Like the rest of us, her life is falling apart. Is one life more important than another? If I’m destined for greatness, to save lives, to kill a corrupt president, to overthrow a dictator, does that make my life more valuable than a woman who does nothing more than raise a child, care for a sick husband?

  As long as blood’s running through my veins and my heart is beating, yes, it matters. Maybe more than anything. This woman is exactly who we’re fighting for. The Tri-Tribes, yeah, them too. The dwellers below. But not only them. This woman. Her child. Her sick husband. Those who can’t fight for themselves.

  “It’s okay,” I say, softening my voice. Her eyes widen like it’s the last thing she expected me to say. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  And then I move on without another word, no doubt leaving the woman speechless, alone with her baby again.

  Down the hall I run, feeling more and more tired with every step. At some point I have to sleep, or my exhaustion will no doubt cause me to make a mistake. But where?

  I pass a door and the placard on the wall catches my eye. Morgue.

  Stopping, I return to the door, which is windowless. Soft, white light pours through a tiny crack at the bottom. Slowly, slowly, slowly I turn the handle, push the door open. Cold air rushes out, instantly sending a chill through my bones. I freeze when I catch sight of a foot.

  Not moving. On a table. I push further in, slip inside, turn the handle and close the door, as quiet as a sleeping baby.

  Thankfully, the dead soldier’s eyes are closed, not watching me.

  She’s naked, dark lines drawn on the entirety of her body, as if in preparation for an autopsy. White light from panels above gives her skin an unnatural sheen, almost as if she’s glowing from within. I shiver, the cold biting through my stolen uniform.

  Is this my chance for a chip? The woman’s right arm appears unmarred, so apparently they haven’t taken her chip out, if they will at all. I could easily extract it, but would that lead to too much suspicion? The last thing I want is a massive manhunt within the dome. It would distract the earth dwellers until they caught me, but my mission would still fail. And they’d likely kill me.

  But wait. If she’s here, in the army medical building, she must be a soldier. Again, not the type of person’s identity I want to steal. I need someone who can blend into the background better…

  I sit down on an empty slab, hug myself, trying to create heat by running my hands up and down my opposing arms. A wave of exhaustion hits me. I need sleep.

  Well, if nothing else, they’d never expect me to be hiding out here. I stand, walk to the wall, where there are rows and rows of large drawers, rising all the way to the ceiling. Grabbing a handle, I say a silent prayer that this particular “bed” is unoccupied. Slide it out, cringing until I see the blank and empty darkness inside.

  Goodnight, Tristan, I think as climb into the drawer that’s meant for a dead person, use the top to slide myself in, closing it completely, save for a sliver of soft, white light shimmering through a crack at the end.

  Chapter Twenty

  Siena

  All we can do is follow the fire chariots as best we can, wondering why in the name of the sun goddess
they’re rushing off in the direction of our friends to the north. Whyohwhyohwhy.

  Nothing makes sense. Nothing good anyway.

  Thankfully, the dunes slow them down, as they have to take the long way ’round the big ones, while we—Skye and Wilde and Tristan and me; we left Lara and Hawk back at the cave—can just go over ’em, careful to wait ’til they can’t see us anymore. But soon the dunes give way to flat, hard ground, and they race away from us, the only evidence of their passing the lingering clouds of dust and the cracked-earth tracks from their wheels.

  We run along the track, and I’m impressed that Tristan is able to keep up. His forehead is red from the sun—unprotected by the half-mask he’s wearing—but he ain’t slowing, ain’t complaining. “You run well,” I say between breaths.

  “I’ve had to do a lot of running recently,” he says.

  We pass the cave that he and Adele first emerged from and I see him staring at it. “No one’s stoppin’ you,” Skye says, noticing it too.

  Tristan just grits his teeth and keeps on running, only looking back once.

  The sun reaches its midpoint and still we run, clinging to the tracks like a baby to its mother, as the ground pops up in mounds. And then we climb a mound and the fire chariots stand ’fore us on another hill, strangely still, like a hurd of grazing tug. As if they’re trying to decide what to do.

  A loud CRACK! rings out and we see the Glassy soldiers diving behind their fire chariots, clustering near the wheels. I know that noise. It was a fire stick going off. Invisible killers. Not the fire sticks themselves, but whatever comes out of ’em, the little metal pods we found stuck in the sides of our shelters after the last attack.

  But who would be shooting fire stick pods at the Glassies? Only the Glassies know how to use ’em.

  Shouts in the distance. From the Glassies. Screams further still. From someone else.

  CRACK, CRACK, CRACK!

  More shots, the soldiers still ducking. Now some of ’em are sticking their fire sticks underneath their chariots, ’round the sides, aiming at whoever’s doing the screaming and shooting.

  CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK!

  A flurry of shots, fire exploding from the soldiers sticks, which is why we named ’em the way we did. And then the soldiers are jumping back into their…trucks, and they’re racing out of sight, over the hill, attacking someone…

  Skye yells for us to go and we do, racing down one mound and up the next, peering through a dust cloud as we crest the hill, seeing the chariots flying across a flat, barren field, right toward—my heart stops ’cause I can’t believe my searin’ eyes—a massive group of people, as many as we have left in all the Tri-Tribes.

  And I can see right away that they’re…they’re Icers. All the Icers.

  Most of ’em are screaming and running, but some of ’em are standing, holding fire sticks like they know what to do with ’em—and they must, ’cause I heard the CRACKS.

  And the only thing standing ’tween the Icers and the Glassy soldiers are…

  Bodies.

  Scattered on the ground like stones.

  Chapter Twenny-One

  Dazz

  It took a chill of a lot of running around and talking to people to get them to calm down. Buff agreed to stay back with our families as I worked with Abe and his conspirators to collect all the weapons from the fallen soldiers. Curly Mustache Man looked like he was about to complain, but after a quick glance at Abe’s fire stick, he backed off.

  The minority reps are suddenly controlling the show. “We’re going back,” I say to Buff and the others as I approach them.

  “I don’t understand,” Buff’s father says. “Why did they kill the soldiers? Weren’t they protecting us?”

  “Yah, protecting us right off a cliff,” I say. “We can’t trust them. They want us all dead, or controlled, or both. They think we’re savages.”

  “The people need to rest,” Mother says. “They’re tired, they’re scared.”

  “No time. We have to go now,” I say. “We can rest when we get home.” Then I have to find Skye, tell her what’s happening, and figure out what to do next. Rekindle the Unity Alliance.

  Abe and his people are giving the message to the rest of the village. Questions are met with rebukes. No time for questions. Finally, everyone gives in, start to shoulder their packs, get their carts moving back the way we came. “Let’s do it,” Buff says, positioning himself under a cart handle.

  Growls in the distance.

  No.

  Coming fast.

  No.

  Getting louder.

  No.

  And then they’re there, a dozen vehicles, standing on a hill, looking down at us like desert gods. Someone screams, “Oh, Heart, no!” and then a lot of people are screaming and shouting and running.

  No. Please, no. Not my family. Not our people. Not this.

  “Run!” I shout to those in the cart. My mother scrambles down, helps Jolie, then Buff’s injured father. The kids spill out, tripping all over themselves, fleeing in front of everyone, joining the stampede. Jolie looks back at me. C’mon! her face says.

  “Go!” I yell. “Go with Mother!”

  “Not without you,” she cries.

  “Now!” I say, turning back the other way, blinking her scared face out of my head.

  Abe and his people are aiming fire sticks at the top of the hill.

  CRACK! The first report of a weapon, probably Abe’s, the one who seems the most confident with them. Our enemies dive for cover and three more shots hammer away.

  Buff and I run to Abe and he tosses us each a weapon from a pile. I catch it awkwardly, gaping at the hot metal. I fight with my fists, not with knives or swords or clubs…certainly not with fire sticks. But what choice do I have? I can’t fight fire with punches and kicks. I have to try.

  I don’t even know how to hold it, but I watch what he does. “Point and press this thing,” he says, showing me a little lever. I mimic his motions, try to hold it like him, wondering how he figured this out all on his own.

  Half a dozen shots slam into my eardrums, raining down from the hill. A guy directly to my left slumps over, blood pouring from a hole in his forehead. Down the line from Abe, another man falls.

  Then the fire chariots growl and come roaring down the hill.

  “Ruuuun!” Abe bellows, taking off in the other direction. We do, pumping our legs as fast as we can, and at some point I realize we’re all trying not to be the slowest one, because the slowest one will get caught first, killed first. And I glance back, and the slowest one is…it’s Buff.

  The vehicles are gaining on us. A shot rings out and I hear the whine as something screams past my head. A miss. No. Fifty feet beyond us a little girl falls, her hand slipping away from where it was clutching her father’s as they fled. He looks back, his face a sheet of white terror and then he stops, falls to his knees, slumps over her. Curly Mustache Man.

  None of his slanted words can save her now.

  I look back again. Buff passes someone, one of the reps from the Black District. CRACK! The guy stumbles, falls, dies.

  Why are they doing this? Is it because we broke the alliance, killed their soldiers, shot at them? Doesn’t make sense. Why would they send so many soldiers to meet us when we already had an armed escort? Was this always the plan? To slaughter us as we crossed the desert wasteland? I suspect the answer is yes. Abe knew it and he tried to do something to change our fates, but it was too little, too late.

  We can’t escape. We have no choice but to stand and fight. Try to give the rest of them a chance. Our families. My family.

  “Abe!” I yell. He’s ahead of me and looks back. “We have to fight!”

  He nods and stops. “Turn and fire!” he yells.

  We do. We turn and fire.

  The CRACKS! explode in my ears and my fire stick rocks against my shoulder, sending spears of pain dancing through my already sore muscles. Sparks fly against the metal vehicles as they rush towar
d us. One of us gets lucky and a soldier tumbles from the back, rolling away in a cloud of dust.

  They respond with shots of their own and another one of us dies, I’m not sure who. We keep firing even as they roar closer, and the weapon dances in my hand, like it’s alive. I force it steady against my shoulder, although I know it’s going to hurt, and aim at one of the vehicles. CRACK! Shards of rock shiver through my bones, but it works! Cracks form in the glass at the front and I can see someone slumped inside, his arm hanging awkwardly out the window.

  The vehicle lurches sharply to its right, slamming hard into the flank of another one. There are more sparks as the domino effect continues, ratcheting across three or four other chariots. The one on the end loses its center of gravity and rolls, throwing men and women and guns around and off it like a folded hand of cards. The other vehicles follow, crashing into each other, bouncing around and eventually slamming into the overturned one. The soldiers in the back aren’t moving.

  “Shoot at the front windows!” I scream, even as another one of us gets hit, falling almost right in front of me.

  I fire and another window shatters, but the soldiers inside are still alive, staring at us. One of them aims a weapon and blasts away…

  Abe goes down, blood spilling from his neck. This can’t be…this isn’t…

  Buff and I fire in short succession, and both men in the front die. But the vehicle lurches the wrong direction, away from the other enemies, angling off harmlessly into the desert.

  A half a dozen enemy carriers, still coming, shooting…

  Another Icer slumps over and I swivel my head from side to side. Everyone dead. Everyone except Buff and me. I shoot. Nothing happens. Buff shoots and a soldier rolls into the dirt.

  Enemy shots crackle.

  Buff groans and falls.

  No.

  His chest is covered in blood.