Terra, p.2
Terra, page 2
Damn it, I think, kicking myself for dismissing the plates earlier.
“Wow, good for him,” I say, failing to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Jealousy is a normal reaction to that kind of find though, so Mal doesn’t seem to think anything of it. “Lucky is right.”
“Yeah, well, at least he only got those twenty minutes in ‘cause of it. Means there’s more left for us, right?”
“Right,” I respond, smiling at him. “Well, I should get back.”
“Heading in already? If you didn’t find that much . . .” he says with a concerned look, and I know he’s thinking of Mica. I feel a twinge of guilt for lying to him but remind myself that he wasn’t the only one who was listening.
“Nah, it’s okay, really. We still have credits left over from the last Collection. I just have to get back. I don’t like to leave the little bro alone for too long, you know how it is. He’s . . .”
“Mica,” we say at the same time.
We both laugh. I wave goodbye to Mal and start back toward the wall, pinning my bag to my side with all the nonchalance I can manage as I pass through the other scavs’ lines of sight.
TWO
The line outside the recycling center is blissfully short. The rain kept us trapped inside for two days this week, so I’m not surprised that most scavs are still out searching, putting in last-minute efforts to boost their credit totals as high as they can.
I get in line behind a tall, lanky boy with reddish-brown hair that sticks up in the back. He looks a few years older than I am, but I know I recognize him from somewhere.
E-something, I think. His name definitely starts with an E.
A tired-looking woman with dirty blond hair loosely braided down her back approaches the drop-off station, which is set up right outside the recycling center doors. She empties her bag on the table, though since I’m stuck behind Something That Begins With E, I can’t quite see its contents.
I can, however, hear the pathetic clink of each item hitting the metal tabletop.
The Collection Agent purses her lips as she pokes the items with her white-gloved hands, then holds her computer tablet over the collection to scan them. She prods at the screen for a minute before looking up.
“Total: thirty-seven credits,” she announces curtly, sweeping the items into a bin that hangs off the edge of the desk.
A pang of sympathy hits me behind my ribs. That’s barely enough to get by between Collections. The blond woman doesn’t move. She mumbles something feebly to the attendant.
The agent stares vacantly, her right eyebrow raised, while the woman speaks. After a moment, she gives a small but distinct shake of her head. I don’t know what the question was, but the answer is very clear. The woman bows her head low as she’s ushered off by a guardsman.
“Next.” The agent motions for the next person to step forward, flicking a speck of dirt off her crisp uniform. A bearded man limps up to the table.
“What was that about?” My tendency to think out loud rears its ugly head. E-something turns and gives me a quizzical look.
“That was Hess Underwood,” he says quietly, in a way that makes it clear I should already know this.
I furrow my brow in response.
“Loran Underwood’s wife.”
“Oh,” I say. It’s all I can muster as a response as I recall what happened to the well-established scav. How he was making his rounds a few days ago when raiders jumped him.
In most instances, raiders might rob a scav of whatever spoils he’s carrying and give him a light beating—the severity of the latter directly corresponding with resistance to the former. If it’s a woman, though . . . Well, there’s a reason there aren’t too many female scavs.
It’s pretty much an unwritten rule that if you get caught, you just give up your stash and the raiders won’t bother with the more violent part. Loran would have known this better than anyone with as many past run-ins as he’d had with them. And it’d been months since a scav had been seriously injured, even longer since one’s been killed.
Not since Lee, I think, something constricting in my chest.
So, it was a bit of a mystery when the guardsmen were seen dragging Loran back to his home that night, on the verge of death. He was unconscious for over a day, and when he finally woke up, he had a shattered kneecap and head injuries bad enough that he couldn’t remember a lick of what happened.
It appears Hess has had to take over his scav duties while he’s recovering, which is a slow process down here even under the best of circumstances.
“Total: eighty-nine credits,” I hear the agent say. “Next!”
“I thought they had a son,” I whisper to E-something, the edge of accusation in my voice. “A year or two above Mica. Trip Underwood, right?” I remember seeing him out scavenging alongside his father on occasion.
E-something doesn’t reply.
“So, why is his mother the one out scavenging?” I continue.
He stares at me for a long moment before slowly exhaling, an act that sounds suspiciously like a sigh.
“Traders.” He says the word matter-of-factly, before turning to the front again.
“Oh,” I say again, unable to come up with a better response.
I don’t know if he means that Trip has been recruited into the ranks of the infamous band of thugs and lawbreakers, or if the Black Traders have done something else with him. Either way, it explains why poor Hess has been stuck with scavenging as a means of providing for her injured husband. The couple will be lucky if they get to see their son again.
“Next!” It’s E-something’s turn. He steps up to the metal table and gives a wary glance in the direction of the guardsman to his right.
“Name?” the agent asks as she takes his palm and scans it with her tablet.
“Garren, Emery,” he replies.
A small grin plays at the corner of my lips. At least I was right about the E.
Still, not being able to remember where I know him from nags at me. I can’t place him in my memories from school but, then again, it’s been years since I’ve set foot in the place.
Gran’s passing had sealed the deal for me: Higher learning was never going to be my bag. Mica’s smart enough for the both of us and after what I put him through after she passed . . . Well, stepping up and starting to provide for the two of us was the very least I could do. I never even bothered to find out if I passed my secondary examinations.
A vague memory begins to stir as I watch Emery stand in front of the Collection Agent. There’s something about the set of Emery’s shoulders that sends me back to my classroom days. Before I can fully recall the memory, however, I’m snapped back to the present by the agent’s shrill voice.
“Total: Two hundred and eighteen credits,” she says through pursed lips.
Wow. Go Emery, I think.
I’ve never broken the two hundred mark at a single Collection before, though I’m hopeful that my little machine will help me do so today. Our electric bill’s a day overdue, Mica needs new school supplies, and the next Rationing is less than a week away, which means most of this payout is already allocated. I need to bag at least one hundred and fifty credits if we’re going to make it without dipping into our paltry savings.
Plus, I think, scraping the worn-down heel of my right shoe in the dirt, I was really hoping to get a new pair of boots this month.
There are a few impressed murmurs from the people in line behind me, still appreciating Emery’s haul. I turn around briefly and take in the length of the queue. Good thing I came back when I did.
Emery turns away from the drop-off station with a poorly suppressed smile on his face. I give him a subtle thumbs-up as he passes but he simply stares at me in response, his expression impassive.
Well, fine then.
“Next!”
I step up to the table and automatically stick out my hand.
“Name?” the agent says, placing my palm on the tablet.
“Rhodon, Terra.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she says, her eyes still plastered to her handheld computer’s screen.
I lift the flap of my bag and remove my jacket, setting it on the table in front of me.
“I think I’m going to need a container,” I say quietly.
The agent peers up at me quizzically with large hazel eyes.
“There are a lot of little pieces,” I explain.
She nods curtly to a guardsman, who places a shallow metal tray on the table.
I slowly tip my bag over it; the piece of plastic is the first to fall out, quickly followed by dozens of screws, wires, and other scraps. They ring loudly as they pour onto the tray, and I can hear speculative murmurs coming from the line behind me.
With pursed lips, the agent immediately holds her computer out and scans the contents of the tray before I have a chance to interject.
“One hundred and seventy-five credits,” she says briskly.
An appreciative whistle rings out from behind me. I glance back to the crowded line and see several beaming faces beaming among the standard, pissed off ones. At least some of them, Mal included, seem pleased that I’ve gotten a good haul. They’re happy for me. Well, happy for Mica.
The agent looks at me with an impatient cock of her eyebrow. “Your credits have been transferred to your account, Ms. Rhodon. You may go.”
“Sorry,” I say quickly, “I wasn’t done.”
She stares at me apathetically.
“You scanned before I had a chance to . . .” I trail off as I reach into the pocket of my bag. Wrapping my fingers around the machine, I pull it out and place it gingerly on the table, keeping my eyes down.
Annoyed, the agent taps around on her computer screen for a few moments, then holds it over the machine. After a minute, I look up. The scan is taking much longer than usual.
Suddenly, I hear a sharp intake of breath. The agent’s eyes dart from the screen to my little machine and back again. She looks up at me with wide eyes and it seems to take a second to find her words.
“C-correction,” she stutters. “Make that . . . six thousand, two hundred and fifteen credits.”
A collective gasp rings out from the queue, and I hear the number repeated over and over again as it moves through the crowd. After a moment, the onlookers’ hushed voices fall into total silence. My heart hammers in my ears as I process the number.
“W-what?” My voice barely registers above a whisper. “Are . . . are you sure?”
The agent simply nods. There has never, in all my recollection, been a credit payout this large before. Ever. The crowd’s silence breaks with my whisper, and their murmurs begin to take on a considerably different tone.
I risk a furtive glance behind me to find that the smiling faces have changed. Some look confused, some outraged. Several people in the back of the crowd have begun to argue. I force my eyes back to the agent, who is staring at me with her mouth agape.
Taking a deep breath, I gently place two fingers on my little machine, still shining on the metal tabletop. It already looks different to me; the tubes wrap around each other, interlocking in a way that seems more intricate in light of its hidden value.
“What is it? What did I find?” I blurt out.
The agent gives me a puzzled look and closes her mouth as if she’s debating how to respond. Ultimately, she says nothing, and her mask of composure quickly returns.
“That information is classified,” she says brusquely. She surveys the crowd that has edged up behind me, all semblance of a line forgotten, then summons a stony-faced, brown-haired guardsman forward. “Guardsman Brant will escort you home, Ms. Rhodon. You may go.”
The guardsman’s green eyes are wide as he approaches, flashing with something that almost looks like recognition as he searches my face, but I don’t think I’ve seen him before. He says nothing. He simply grips my arm and pulls me away from the crowd of onlookers, many of whom are still sending angry glares in my direction.
Just before we turn out of the square, I look back to see the agent pick up the machine and walk directly inside the recycling center, shutting the doors behind her.
It appears Collection Day is over.
THREE
I barely register the feel of Guardsman Brant’s hand around my upper arm until we’re two blocks from the square. Then it hits me.
Six. Thousand. Credits.
I swallow noisily and try to compose myself, but my heart is racing. It’s insane. It’s unheard of. It’s . . . troubling, to say the least.
In an attempt to hide my shock, I force Brant to take a quick detour to the Marketplace. Actually, I try to convince him to let me go by myself, but he insists he is to accompany me all the way home.
Despite his protests, I’m dead set on picking up the few items that I had already intended to purchase after what I thought would be a fairly ordinary payout. My hand shakes as I offer it to Mr. Copper, my favorite stallkeeper, to scan.
“What’d you do this time?” he asks jokingly, glancing pointedly at Brant.
“You know me, Copp,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “Natural-born troublemaker. Brant here’s keeping me on the straight and narrow.”
Copp chuckles as he runs the credit scanner over my palm. My breath hitches when my credit balance flashes over the register, and his eyebrows shoot straight up his forehead.
“Time to go, Miss Rhodon,” Brant says brusquely, shepherding me out of the stall before another word is exchanged.
I leave the Marketplace with Mica’s school supplies, half a dozen freshly purified water canteens, and my much-needed boots, feeling the burn of a dozen pairs of eyes on my back.
The walk home has never felt so long. I pepper Brant with questions once the shock wears off a little—why did they close the recycling center early? Had he ever seen anything like my machine—but I receive nothing in response.
“It’s just a few blocks down,” I say to Brant as we finally near my apartment complex, “I got it from here.”
His silence, though typical for a guardsman, has left me tense and anxious. If he won’t answer any of my questions, the least he can do is leave me alone with my thoughts.
“My instructions are to escort you home, Miss Rhodon,” he replies, polite but perfunctory.
“I know, but we’re basically there already,” I persist. “Really, it’s fine if you go. I’m a big girl.”
Brant raises an eyebrow and gently places his hand on my shoulder as if to prevent me from running away. My cheeks burn; I’m being led like a child.
He walks me inside my apartment building, only releasing me once we reach my doorstep. As I fumble to find my keys, he suddenly reaches out and grabs my wrist. I look up at him, indignant, only to find him darting his head from side to side like he’s ensuring we are alone.
“You have to be careful,” he whispers, his eyes full of urgency. “Don’t ask questions. Keep your head down.”
Before I can ask him to explain, he’s already walking away, his face stoic once again. I’m not sure if he meant them as a warning or a threat, but either way, his words leave me with my breath caught in my chest.
When Mica returns from school, I’m bursting at the seams to talk about it, but somehow I manage to refrain from telling him about my discovery and the resulting payout. The last thing I want is to get his hopes up—this could very well be some kind of error, a glitch in the system. I need to learn more, to be sure.
Brant’s warning echoes in my head, but I need answers. Is this legitimate? Why did they insist upon escorting me home—am I in danger? Far more importantly, is Mica? And, in the back of my mind, less urgent but still there: What was it that I found?
First thing the next morning, I find myself heading back to the reopened recycling center. Unfortunately, my initial efforts to find answers are decidedly unsuccessful.
“If you do not have goods to drop off, you have no business here,” the guardsman tells me for the second time, his face vacant.
I let out a huff, my patience already thin after waiting an hour just to talk to this new guard. He wasn’t there yesterday, but it feels clear from just how dismissive he’s being that he knows why I’m here.
“Just let me talk to someone, anyone. The Collection Agent, another one of the guardsmen . . .” I refrain from mentioning Brant by name, just in case. “I just have a few questions, it won’t take long.”
“Do you have goods to drop off?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then you have no business here,” he repeats, his emphasis on the word “you” giving me pause.
“I’m not leaving until I get some answers,” I say, crossing my arms stubbornly.
I hear a sigh and look over to see today’s Collection Agent, a young man with wavy, chin-length brown hair and a crystal stud in his ear, seated at the drop-off station, watching me. He squints, studying my face. After a moment, he holds a finger up to the scav he’s been speaking with as if instructing him to wait, then beckons me over. The scav scowls at me as I approach.
“What exactly is the problem here?” the Agent asks.
“I was here yesterday,” I say. “I had the . . . I’m the one who . . .” I can’t quite bring myself to say it, like speaking it aloud will either wake me from this dream or cement it into reality. I’m not sure which one I’d prefer.
Comprehension dawns on the agent’s face, before quickly being replaced with the same indifference as before. “And . . . ?”
“And I have some questions. I need to talk to someone about it.”
“You have questions. You need to talk to someone,” he repeats slowly, pursing his lips at the end as if the words themselves taste bad.
I feel incredibly small.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he says. “If we stopped to flag down an agent every time someone in this settlement wanted to ‘talk to someone’ about their Collection, we’d never get anything done at all. So, if that’s all . . . ”
