by David Estes
I shrug. “It happens, right?” I say, trying to smile, trying to get him to smile.
“Not really.” No smile. No expression. “You’re a star dweller?” he asks, like it’s a foregone conclusion given the mistakes I’ve made.
“A moon dweller,” I say, holding my right fist with my left hand. If I let go, I’m afraid I’ll punch the blank look off his face.
“Hmm,” he murmurs. “Show me.”
So I roll up my shirt, peel off the bloodstained bandage…
“Oh my God!” he cries, covering his mouth with a hand.
“I know,” I say, silently relishing the effect my ragged wound is having on him. “I had to report him to his superior. I hope they never let him near another human being.”
He nods, his eyes wide, and I feel like we’re bonding over my made up story. “I’m sorry for my reaction,” he says, as if it was a terrible offense. “I just wasn’t expecting…”
“It’s okay,” I say, reassuringly. Suddenly we’re best friends. “Can you fix it?”
“We’ll have to recreate your identity on a new chip, implant it in the same spot. Wrap your arm and let it heal.”
“Good, good, whatever you have to do.”
And then he does it. Like there’s no way I could be anyone but who I say I am, because how could I be? Who would sneak into the New City? Who could sneak in? He numbs my wound, cleans it, activates a new chip, and inserts it, capping the procedure off with a fresh, white bandage. The whole thing takes twenty minutes.
Then he says I’m too new to understand the system, so I’ll have to fill out a bunch of forms by hand. He promises to enter everything in the system as soon as I complete them. Drowning me in a mountain of paperwork, he leaves me alone to complete the forms. Who I am, who my parents are, siblings, friends, date of birth, my whole history. And since we’re best friends now, he explains how it’ll be programmed onto my chip, how if I have any problems I should come right back to him.
Everything I write is a lie, but because I’m starting from scratch, theoretically their system won’t know that. I’m an orphan; the rest of my family is dead. I was recently selected to come above to the New City. I haven’t made any friends yet. I haven’t had time—been working too hard at my job. Little white lies.
I leave as a new person, literally. Legal and accounted for. Oh, and in the occupation section, I checked the box for “Presidential Cleaner.” I don’t know exactly what that means but I suspect it’ll help me at some point along the way.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Siena
Skye tries to take off down the hill, chasing after the trucks like she has any chance of catching ’em, like she’d be able to make any difference even if she could, but Wilde grabs her from behind, pulls her back, screams at me and Tristan to help her.
We do our best, clutching at my sister, who’s fighting like a Killer, thrashing and screaming and scratching at us with her nails. “Let go of me! Burn you all! It’s my choice…mine!” And the whole time I’m pinning my sister to the ground, I’m staring at the desert in front of me, unable to look away, as the Glassies and their fire chariots and their fire sticks tear through the Icers like a dust storm through a village.
And I’m crying, tears streaming down my face, ’cause I see him, Dazz. Buff, too. They’re at the front and they’re fighting, using the Glassies’ weapons against ’em, but it’s not enough—not nearly enough—and they fall. And the chariots keep going, into the fleeing villagers, women and children and men, fathers and mothers and sisters, like Jolie, who we fought to save, nearly died to save. I know their screams will fill my nightmares for the rest of my days. They’re all cut down, until none are left standing. Not a single one.
And Skye, even though she can’t see it—thank the sun goddess she can’t see it—knows it, too. That it’s over. That they’re all…
I can’t even think it.
We’re wrapped up t’gether, Skye and Wilde and me, broken and sobbing, falling apart, ’cause they were our friends and to Skye, maybe more’n that.
I feel a firm hand on my back. Tristan, his mask ripped off. “We have to…go,” he says, his voice a shattered-whisper. I look up. His cheeks are wet, too. He didn’t know any of the Icers, but still he hurts for ’em, for us. He ain’t no spy. “We have to go,” he repeats. “If they realize we’re here…”
He’s right, and as much as I want to lie ’ere all day, want to dig a hole and crawl into it, we have a whole village of people that are depending on us. We hafta be strong for ’em, even if we’re broken inside.
Wilde stands first, her cheeks shining. She helps me up. The three of us try to pull Skye to her feet, but she resists, the opposite of ’fore. Then we had to force her down, now we can’t get her up. “No, leave me,” she says. “Just leave me.” Her voice is weaker’n a sick Totter’s, barely coming out, like it’s stuck in her throat. Seeing her like this stabs through me like a knife. But I can’t listen, can’t let her have her way, or she’ll die.
“Get up, Skye. Get up.” I pull harder, and t’others do too. We force her to her feet, although her legs are as wobbly as a newborn tug’s. “Yer not dyin’ on us,” I grunt, pushing her arm ’round my neck. “Carry her,” I say.
Wilde takes her other arm and Tristan grabs her feet, and we start down the opposite side of the mound, but ’fore we’re even halfway to the bottom, Skye’s twisting outta our arms. “I still got two feet,” she mumbles.
So we let her down, let her walk on her own, but I keep close to her, ’cause she’s stumbling, not lifting her feet high enough, and muttering under her breath, tears continuing to trace meandering streams down her cheeks. And she’s making soft, whimpering noises, but no, that’s not her. It’s me. I’m sobbing as I walk.
Broken. So broken. And yet only half as broken as Skye must be.
~~~
When we’re far, far away from where it happened, we sit down in a cluster, Skye and Wilde and me. Trying to pick up the pieces. Trying to remember why we hafta keep going. Tristan has replaced his mask, hiding his expression. He gives us our space, sitting a little ways off, just staring at the red sky above us. Every now and again he wipes a tear from the corners of his eyes.
Eventually, the tears stop, for all of us, like we’ve run out. Is that even possible? To run out of tears? Another time I thought so, too, when I’d believed I’d lost Circ. That was the worst of the worse, every bit as bad as things are now, and yet I picked myself up and came out stronger. And then my mother died. With almost her last breaths, she saved me. Did it break me, destroy me, end me? No. Again, I came out stronger.
But Skye, she ain’t crying anymore, but the hurt’s still there, in the dark brown of her eyes, in the quivering curve of her lips, in the clenched lines of her face. Will she come out stronger? She’s already the strongest person I know, so what does that mean?
I tuck a hand ’round her head, pull her into my chest. For once, I’m the stronger one. I hafta be, for her. She lets me do it for a little while, until I feel her body tense up. She squeezes her fingers into fists, releases ’em, squeezes again.
And when she looks up, well…I’ve seen Skye hardened and raw and rougher’n prickler skin plenty of times ’fore, but I ain’t never seen her like this. Her eyes are dark and her chin like stone. Even with the dried tears on her cheeks, she looks unbreakable. And yet beneath the impenetrable fortress she’s desperately trying to build ’round herself, I sense she’s more broken’n shattered glass. I don’t know what to do for her.
“I’ll kill every burnin’ Glassy baggard there is,” she growls. “They started this war, but we’ll finish it.”
~~~
The trek back to New Wildetown feels longer’n it is. It’s like what we saw is sucking us back with each step. Three steps forward and two back. But still we soldier on. Skye’s starting to scare me with those eyes of hers, darker’n ever ’fore with her angry eyebrows so low over ’em it’s like they’re a part of ’em.
I feel awful for having given her a hard time ’bout Dazz when we were trudging through the desert ’fore. Even if it was just a bit of fun, I still shouldn’ta done it.
When the familiar three-peaked tower of rocks comes into view, I heave out a ragged breath and will my legs forward one at a time. Everything is suddenly catching up with me as I see the place I called home for a short time ’fore we left for ice country. It wasn’t that long ago, but it seems like miles and miles and miles and years and years and years. Lifetimes. Tears blur my vision as we pick up the pace.
All I want is to see him, to have a soft place to land, to have a shoulder to fall into, to cry into. Skye can have my shoulder, but I want his. I need his.
And then he’s there, emerging from a hidden break in the rocks, running, sprinting. Circ. Graceful and perfect and mine.
Feve’s right behind him, and as they approach I can see in their expressions that they can tell something’s wrong. Probably ’cause the tears on my cheeks are shining from a mile away.
I’m running. Skye and Wilde are, too, I think. Tristan’s the only one who’s still walking, or maybe just standing there, gawking. I don’t know, ’cause I’m too busy crashing into Circ and he’s holding me fiercely, tighter’n a clenched fist, like he was worried I wasn’t coming home at all, regardless of how many pieces I’m in. “Oh, sun goddess,” I breathe, ’cause even Circ’s love can’t bring ’em back. Nothing can.
Feve’s got Skye and Wilde, one in each arm, and it’s the scariest thing in the world to see Wilde so shattered, tears running down her cheeks, clinging to Feve like a wet shirt.
“They killed ’em,” Skye says, and I finally realize she ain’t crying. She’s the only one of us three not crying. “They killed ’em all.” And her words, they’re like the hard, cold ice in the mountains to the north, a home for a people who no longer need it. “It’s time for war.”
~~~
We’re setting in a circle. Lots of other folk are ’ere too, mostly just to listen, to hear the tragedy that Wilde’s recounting. The news from ice country.
I’m leaning into Circ and his arm’s ’round me, and it feels so searin’ good that it feels awful.
’Cause Skye’s got no one to hold her.
’Cept she does, ’cause our younger sister, Jade, is huddled up against her, and you know what? For once, Skye lets her, doesn’t push her away, doesn’t tell her to scram, like she always does if I try to show her affection. And I’m glad for it. So glad.
Feve’s asking questions of Wilde every so often in that low, warm voice of his. He’s got a baby in each arm and his wife, Hela, at his side. Feve the family man. Even after I witnessed it the first time, after we settled in New Wildetown, I could barely believe it. But it’s true, and I was shocked that the dark warrior was a pretty searin’ good father.
The odd one out is Tristan, whose eyes are shooting all ’round like darts, just taking everything in, looking like an alien wearing his mask. Answering any questions that are asked of him, mostly stuff he’s already told us. Where’d you come from? Who are you? Why are you here? Your girlfriend really went inside the Glass City alone? To help us? And you swear you’re not a Glassy? His voice sounds strange through the mask as he answers each one.
He looks so out of place it’s almost funny, and I might laugh if I felt like I could.
But laughter’s just not something any of us got in us right now. Maybe tomorrow.
~~~
When all the questions and the conversating pretty much ends, me and Circ go for a walk. I need to be with him right now. Just him. Even if only for a short time.
He’s got his fingers laced in mine and I’m grizzed at myself for enjoying it so much. My footsteps are heavy and loud, while his are as graceful and lithe as one of the fire dancers who sometimes perform at the evening meal.
“Siena,” he says, his dark brown eyes even darker in the shadows, his skin like night. Under the cloudy sky, he could almost be a Stormer. “Tell me.”
And that’s Circ. Knowing me every searin’ bit as well as I know myself. Knowing when I got something to say and when I don’t.
“I’m afraid I’ll be a hot mess if I try to talk ’bout it,” I say, squeezing his hand harder just to make sure it’s still there.
In less time’n it takes Perry to hurl an insult, Circ’s got me in his arms, carrying me, like I’m some helpless little doll of his.
“Put me the scorch down!” I hiss. “I got two feet like everbody else.”
But he just laughs, goes right on carrying me, and I don’t fight him too hard, ’cause it’s kinda fun and kinda what I need.
We go to the left, into darker darks, through some sorta cave cut into the side of the canyon. I feel us rising…up, up, up…twisting one way, then t’other, Circ’s strong arms holding me like I’m as heavy as a Totter, which ain’t that far from the truth.
I breathe him in and he’s the desert and the heat and a bit of that crushed prickler-flower powder I gave him one time as a gift. He said it was a gift for a woman, but now he uses it more’n any women I know.
When we emerge from the dark I lose my breath, even though he’s been the one doing all the work, ’cause the sight is beyond imagination. We’re high up, unimaginably high, looking out over the vastness of fire country, spreading wide and dark and mysterious under a cloud-filled sky.
Still carrying me, Circ sets himself down and holds me on his lap. “I wanted stars,” he grumbles.
“Never mind the stars,” I say.
Circ looks into my eyes and the warmth and familiarity of ’em are too much, too much. I duck my head into his shoulder and my body shakes, tears trailing silent tracks down my cheeks. “Why are they doing this?” I sob. “What’d any of us ever do to deserve this?”
There are no answers, so Circ stays silent, just holds me, his cheek against my hair.
When the tears stop falling and I’m able to pull away to look at him, his eyes are glistening. He considered Dazz and Buff friends, too. Fought beside ’em, travelled to foreign lands with ’em. Never again.
“Everything’s so burnin’ screwed up,” I say. “We’re the only thing that’s right.”
“No,” Circ says.
“No?” I echo, feeling fresh tears well up. We’re not right?
“Not only us,” Circ explains and I blink the tears away. “Your sisters. Wilde. Feve. My family. Everyone down there, sitting around that fire. They’re right, too. We’ve got something—a world, a life, a happiness—worth protecting.”
And his words are so perfect and so beautiful that I want to grab ’em and bring ’em to my chest and never let ’em go…but instead they slice through me ’cause…
“You weren’t there,” I say, my words numb. “You didn’t hafta watch ’em die. You don’t know.”
There’s fire running through my belly and suddenly it’s like I wanna be somewhere else, anywhere else, but I know there’s no place I can hide from the past. From the truth.
Circ kisses me so suddenly I don’t have time to take a breath, but then I’m kissing back and breathing when I can, and realizing this is a place I can go, ’cause when we’re doing this I’m far, far away and maybe I don’t ever hafta come back.
His hand’s on my back, in my hair, tugging at my hips: they’re everywhere at the same time, like he’s got more’n two. He’s all I need.
How can one person, whether male or female, or young or old, or friend or family or lover, make you feel so good, send sparks dancing through your very being? It’s a question only a heart can answer.
His lips, painting a picture on mine. And I’m gone, gone, gone, drifting away…
…finding a better place.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tristan
Where the hell am I? What the hell am I doing?
I watched those people die today, and I knew I was watching the hand of evil. It cracked my bones, splintered my soul, shattered my heart. I didn’t know any of them, but
I didn’t have to, because they were mothers, fathers, children, brothers, sisters, friends. Like Adele and Roc and Tawni and Elsey and no different than the ones I love down below. They were people—slaughtered like animals.
If the Glassy soldiers doing the killing are the hand of evil, then Borg Lecter is the face, the mouth, the one giving the orders. And I’ve pushed Adele right into his gaping maw to be crushed with a single bite.
She could be dead already. But I’d feel it, wouldn’t I? Instead I feel nothing, empty. Is that because of what I saw today, or because she’s gone? No. No, I felt something completely different when my mom disappeared, when my father admitted—bragged even—that he’d killed her. Sadness and rage and loss. I don’t feel any of that. So that means Adele’s still alive, right?
“Yes,” I whisper under my breath. Even if I’m lying to myself, I feel better having said it out loud.
“What’s that?” the tattooed guy, Feve, asks. His wife took one of the babies he was holding, but he’s still got the other one tucked under his arm like a package. When I first met him, all dark and tatted up and ripped like he spends every day, all day lifting stones, working out, I’d never have guessed he was a family man. And yet somehow…it suits him.
“Uh, nothing,” I grunt, my voice coming out raspy, phlegm in my throat.
New Wildetown stands before us, the towering, sheer cliffs of the canyon rising up on either side, framing a long line of tents and shelters, constructed of a combination of wood and thick animal skins. Activity buzzes through the village. Talking, laughing, shouts of mothers and fathers disciplining their children. It’s all so…normal. Like there aren’t people killing each other less than a day’s journey from here. Like there’s no war, no evil. They might not have a towering glass dome, or the technology to raise it, but the people of the Tri-Tribes have created a bubble of their own. Even being a foreigner, a stranger, I already feel safe here.
