“Certainly.” His eyes rise to our stacks of our gear on the luggage racks. “But not for mere merits.”
He suspects we’re carrying contraband, of course. But I can’t trade him our weapons.
“I’m not sure—”
“It’s bad luck,” Jax cuts in, “discussing business before lunch. Perhaps I can take you somewhere?”
I nod in agreement, not daring to glance at Zura.
I’ve just made this mission a lot more complicated.
The train is excruciating.
My father has always kept the local transport slow, to make his domain seem bigger than it really is. And I’m used to traveling in an armored hoverlimo, with no part of Shreve more than twenty minutes from home.
When rebels move, it’s on hoverboards. Free and in the open air, not stuffed into a can.
At last our train arrives in town.
The city’s towers rise up around us, and my camping badge shows all five stars of signal strength. The dust is thick here.
We step out onto the platform, trying not to look like newcomers.
In town, no one stares at us, which is strange for me. Back when Rafi and I came to this station for appearances, there were always huge crowds waiting for us.
Shreve Central, one of my father’s efforts at magnificence. Fifty meters over our heads, the ceiling is made from a stained-glass window the size of a soccer field. The clouds in the sky are breaking, and multihued shards of daylight scatter across the marble floor. The lancing sun ignites sparkles in the air.
Dust, a beautiful reminder that the city is watching.
The station feels half-empty, though. Before the war, visitors and traders from other cities used to come here in the thousands every day. But the embargo against Shreve has held firm. Central is now just a glorified transfer station between local trains.
My father’s greed has hollowed out his city. This station always signified the world beyond Shreve. But now it feels spark-missing, like a hoverboard with no magnetics.
“Spectacular, isn’t it?” Jax says, looking up at the ceiling. “But to grasp the full effect, your vision must be unimpaired.”
He hands me the eyeglasses again. I slip them on …
I almost gasp aloud.
Exploding across my view are countless scribbles on the floor, layer upon layer of messages covering the expanse of white marble. The signs for shops and restaurants are obscured by mysterious symbols. Even the wallscreens have been hijacked—wavering words shudder alongside the train departure times and track numbers.
It’s a mess, but somehow beautiful, this scrawled barrage of meaning, even if I don’t understand any of it.
My father’s city is full of secrets.
“Shouldn’t we be getting lunch?” Zura asks.
“The next train out isn’t for two hours,” Col says. “Let’s take a walk with our new friend.”
Zura wants to argue, and the rest of our crew looks confused. None of them have worn the eyeglasses. All they know is that Col and I are putting the mission at risk.
Here in the dust, there’s no way to explain.
“Trust me,” Col adds. “It’ll be fun.”
So we wind up with Jax leading us through the station, regaling us with the history of its construction.
It’s the first time since the war started that I’ve seen citizens of Shreve in these numbers. Their clothes aren’t just bland—they look threadbare. Like the holes in the wall are recycling the same material for the tenth time.
Lodge scans the crowd like he expects an ambush, and Zura quietly seethes. Yandre is reserving judgment, and Riggs and Boss Charles seem to be enjoying themselves. Maybe they sense a kindred spirit in Jax.
Or maybe they just enjoy chaos.
Jax leads us deeper into the station, to the lower levels, where subway pods glide beneath the city. The tunnels down here are less crowded, the air rumbling softly from the heavy trains overhead.
As he delivers his oration, Jax keeps glancing around, as if looking for hidden signs. But he isn’t wearing the eyeglasses—I am.
The walls down here are dirty—the war has chipped away at the city’s famous order. There’s even litter in a few places, which I’ve never seen before in Shreve.
The city interface hasn’t spoken to us since we arrived. Maybe here in the center of town, it’s harder to catch its notice. Or maybe being in Jax’s eccentric orbit deflects attention.
He keeps glancing at the plastic ribbons stuck into the concrete every few meters. They hang in groups of three or four, of various colors and lengths.
Are they signposts for a secret path?
Jax brings us to a halt on an empty platform, pointing down at the tracks below.
“Observe! A disused track, for the Cobra mag-lev that once visited our fair city.” Jax kneels at the platform edge. “It holds a secret.”
I look through the glasses. No hidden marks down there.
“Centuries ago,” Jax says, “Rusty trains used this tunnel. The width of those trains was based on the Roman roads in Europe, designed to hold a chariot. Even our latest tech is ruled by the dimensions of ancient war machines!”
The city interface speaks up. “Not strictly correct—this continent had several different railroad track gauges. It wasn’t till after the Slavery Abolition War that things were standardized. The Romans were irrelevant by then.”
Jax looks miffed.
“Always a pleasure to hear from a fellow ferroequinologist,” he says to the air. “But I think you’ve missed the pith of my argument. It’s not that …”
His voice trails off as a train rumbles past in some nearby tunnel, stirring the air around us. Jax’s gaze drifts to the platform wall, where three of the mysterious ribbons hang.
They dance in the sudden breeze, lifting up one by one. When the longest begins to flutter, Jax’s manner changes all at once.
“Who are you people?” he asks.
Zura steps forward. “What do you—”
“It’s okay,” Col tells her, pointing at his camping badge. “The signal’s at zero. The wind down here’s too much for the dust.”
“You need that explained?” Jax frowns. “You aren’t smugglers, are you?”
Zura looks like she’s about to punch someone.
“How long do we have?” I ask Jax.
“Three trains, arriving in sequence. Two minutes and forty seconds, more or less.”
Yandre gestures at the ribbons. “That chalk mark on the wall—it’s the minimum, right?”
“We don’t have time for that,” I cut in. “Jax, you’re right—we’re not smugglers. We’re here to rescue a friend in prison. Can we trust you not to turn us in?”
He looks a little offended. “I would never betray a customer.”
“Okay,” I say. “But what exactly are you selling?”
“Besides your silence,” Zura mutters.
“You do seem well funded.” Jax scans our bags with greedy eyes. “What is it you need?”
A thousand questions crowd my mind.
“Those hidden symbols,” I ask. “Are they just for smugglers?”
“Hardly,” Jax says. “Thousands contribute to the palimpsest, with as many purposes. A little smuggling, a lot of venting. And perhaps some small degree of treason.”
“Thousands,” I breathe.
“It can’t be that many,” Col says. “Somebody would’ve betrayed you by now!”
Jax nods. “That issue is often debated. Some say that Security allows the palimpsest to exist—to collect their own profits on the black market, or to let us blow off steam. Others contend that relying on machines has made the regime weak. What Sir Dust can’t see simply doesn’t exist.”
“And you’re a smuggler?” I ask.
“A privateer, as my card says.” Jax bows a little. “A broker of privacy. Of which you have ninety seconds left. Use them well.”
That freezes me. I want to know everything about my city.
/> Yandre speaks up. “We need help.”
Zara turn to them. “No we don’t. We can’t trust him!”
“But a diversion—”
“We already …” Zura halts herself, her teeth clenching in frustration. “You realize this is a secret mission, right?”
“Zura, this is bigger than our mission.” Yandre turns to Col. “Think of home.”
A look passes between the two childhood friends.
“This isn’t the plan!” Lodge speaks up.
Riggs shares a smile with Boss Charles. “It’s better than the plan.”
“Sixty seconds,” Jax says. “And I need to be paid for this time, and those glasses.”
Col raises his hands to silence everyone. “The next minute is yours, Dre.”
Yandre pulls their badge off and hands it to Jax. “Those stars there? They show the signal strength of the dust. None of them are shiny; it’s safe to talk.”
Jax stares at the badge in his palm. “But this is worth … millions.”
“We don’t need merits,” Yandre says. “We need help. Introduce us to someone who can disrupt Security.”
Jax smiles. “What flavor of disruption?”
“We need to overwhelm the system,” Yandre says. “So much suspicious activity that the staff can’t look at it all.”
“Ah, a denial of attention attack. It’s been a while.” Jax slips the badge into his breast pocket. “There’s someone who lives nearby—I can ask them to meet you. The lane behind this station is our usual spot.”
“When?” I ask. “And what about the dust?”
Jax glances at the wall. The rumble of the trains is fading, the flutter of the ribbons wavering.
“One answer to both your questions—wait for the rain.”
And then, without a pause, he’s lecturing us again on the history of steam engines, rolling stock, and magnetic levitation.
My father’s eyes and ears are back.
But for the first time, the dust doesn’t feel all-powerful.
I take my crew to the covered markets, not far from the station.
Dark clouds pile up over the city, the coming rain like a weight shifting overhead. The markets are busy, full of transport and farm workers, and our gear doesn’t stick out as much.
I order food from the city interface—badly. My Shreve accent might be native, but I’ve never had to order a meal before. In a rebel crew, you eat what everyone else does. Growing up, I ate what was needed to keep my body exactly like Rafi’s.
But that’s not an issue anymore.
“That’s quite a lot of food,” the city says with a hint of displeasure.
Wasting food is frowned on here in Shreve, especially in wartime. But we won’t get another hot meal till the mission is over.
“We have lots of hiking later, sir.”
The city doesn’t comment, but four hundred merits rattle out of my account. Penalty rates for conspicuous consumption.
“Thank you, sir,” I mumble, letting the clatter and roar of the market envelop my words.
Zura is still quietly furious with me and Col. When I hand her Jax’s eyeglasses, she barely glances through them. But she passes them around the table, giving the others a look.
The conversation feels forced. Over the last weeks, I’ve gotten used to my friends’ camo-surge. But facing everyone around this table, it’s like we’re at some awkward costume party.
“Rain’s coming soon,” Col says, staring at the dust chimneys across the street.
Here in the center of Shreve, the chimneys are smaller than in the country. But they’re on every rooftop, like we’ve traveled back in time to some Rusty city burning coal to stay warm.
We’re not the only people talking about the weather. Half the customers are standing at the edge of the covers, looking at the sky. The rest are concentrating on their food, pointedly ignoring the coming rain.
Every downpour must create this divide—the good citizens and the rebellious. With the dust swept from the air, there’s space for black-market deals and secret conversations.
Maybe more serious crimes.
The food arrives, way too much of it, carried by a fleet of drones. The rebels tear at the corn bread with their fingers instead of cutting it into slices.
The workers around us don’t care about our eating habits, though. They’re more interested in the dark and heavy sky.
Then I smell it—the sharp scent of rain.
We all start eating faster. It’ll mean demerits if we waste food.
But other customers are already slipping into the downpour, leaving behind empty market stalls, stray packages, uneaten meals. They don’t care how odd it looks.
Of course, if enough people do something, it’s normal by definition.
Col leans back from his food. “A stroll, anyone?”
A glance from Zura tells Lodge to stay and look after our gear, and Boss Charles seems happy to finish eating. The other five of us push away from the table and head back toward the station.
The rain is falling in sheets. It’s one of those springtime deluges that I remember playing in as a littlie, Rafi and me dancing on our balcony, even before we grew to hate the dust.
The streets turn instantly muddy—a slurry of surveillance nanos washed down from the sky. All those tiny cameras, microphones, and batteries now a layer of mire beneath our feet.
Already my lungs feel lighter, cleaner.
I glance up. Security sends drones out to keep watch during rainstorms; there’s nothing overhead yet.
The lane behind the station is blustery, channeling the storm into wet, billowing gusts. A few small groups already huddle along its length, having frantic conversations in the dust-missing air.
“While we wait, maybe you three could explain,” Zura says. “Why are we risking this entire mission for a diversion?”
“For Victoria,” Col says.
Zura just stares at him.
“We always thought that the people here had no freedom at all,” Yandre says. “But they’ve found ways around the dust!”
“Maybe Victoria isn’t as hopeless as we thought,” Col says.
“That’s no reason to throw out the plan!” Zura is fighting not to shout. “If Security finds that badge on Jax, they’ll come straight to us!”
“He’s been a crim for a long time,” I say. “He can stay out of trouble for two more days.”
“Look at them all, grabbing this little sliver of privacy.” Yandre waves at the people around us. “Imagine the diversion they can create!”
“Something big,” Col says. “Big enough for a dictator to feel.”
Zura looks away, not wanting to argue with Col when he’s thinking about revenge for Victoria.
But she’s not happy. “I hope it’s worth it. This may cost us everything.”
“Enough,” Riggs hisses. “Someone’s here.”
We follow her gaze.
A figure is approaching through the rain.
It’s a girl. Younger than me, tall, skinny, frizzy-haired. No surge.
Somehow I was expecting someone older.
“Jax said there were seven of you,” she says.
“Two of us are watching our gear,” Zura says.
The girl frowns—nothing is ever stolen in Shreve, unless you’re brain-missing enough to leave it out in the rain.
“Must be serious contraband,” she says.
Zura doesn’t answer.
“Jax showed me that dust detector. Got any more?”
Col pulls off his badge and gives it to her.
She squints at the logo, then adds it to her own jacket, which is covered with badges from two dozen different social clubs.
“I’m Sara. I guess we’re all going to be friends.”
Then she starts talking fast, her words spilling out in a race with the rain. I can’t understand half of what she’s saying.
“Jax told me you want a DOA? Major denial, multiple cliques? No one’s tried that since t
he Battle of Shreve, you know?”
We don’t know, but Sara doesn’t let that stop her.
“There’s a clique called Crime. You met any of them?” She laughs. “Right, you aren’t from around here. Crime doesn’t do real crimes; they just sit around planning murders that Sir Dust won’t see. Not boring stuff, like stabbing someone in the rain. Slipping in the shower, say, or an accident on a train platform, so it’s just: Oops, a thousand merits for being clumsy! Crime is perfect for this DOA.”
“DOA?” I ask. “As in Dead on Arrival?”
“Ha! Denial of Attention, also known as swamping the dust. I can get you Secret Hookups too! They’d love one of these badges. But the perfect clique for you is Future. Lots of members, all of them ready to help with something historic.” She hesitates, looking down at her new badge. “One of those stars is flickering. Is that bad?”
“Probably just a few cams drifting by,” Yandre says. “Anything less than a solid star, it’s safe to talk.”
“Bubbly. How many of these can you get me?”
We each had two when the mission started, so we still have a dozen—
“Only four,” Zura says.
Sara’s eyes light up. “Not bad. Can’t exactly cut them into equal shares, but …”
She falls silent as she calculates, and the sound of the rain rushes in to fill the gap.
I scan the alleyway. There are half a dozen other clusters of people around us now, talking about who knows what. I wonder if some are from the cliques Sara’s talking about, secret cultures in the shadows of my father’s tower.
All those years growing up, I had no idea how much was happening down here in the rain and shadows.
But Yandre is right—the people of Shreve aren’t cowed by the dust. They resist the regime in ways no one’s ever told me about, even when I was playing Rafi full-time.
If she didn’t know about the palimpsest, maybe Father doesn’t either.
It lifts my heart, and yet raises a question: Why does Diego want me to lead, when I have no idea how my people really live?
It’s one thing to save your city, another to understand it.
Yandre speaks up. “Let’s talk about this diversion. It has to happen two nights from now. Just after midnight.”
Mirror's Edge Page 6
