Terra, p.4
Terra, page 4
“But you’re not being smart. You’re not doing anything! God, you do this every time, Terra. Every time something big happens. Something has to change. You can’t just freeze up on me anymore.”
I flinch at his words and want to respond, but the memories of the dark time that followed Gran’s death are already rushing back to me.
Overwhelmed with the burden of responsibility and the ache of Gran being gone, I had just . . . stopped. Did nothing beyond the basic, perfunctory motions required to stay alive. And every time Mica, not even ten years old yet, tried to shake me out of it, every time he cried, I would shut him out. Literally. The pain would crest and I would fall into it, locking myself in my bedroom while he howled and pounded at the door, the days ticking on without me.
We ran out of money first. Then, food.
It wasn’t until the guardsmen delivered my starving baby brother after he collapsed at school that I finally woke up. Seeing his body, limp and ashen against their stark uniforms, was an ice-cold shock that yanked me back to reality. The way his wrist dangled lifelessly over the edge of that guard’s arm . . . I swore then and there that I would never fail him like that again.
The guilt alone would kill me.
I went scavenging for the first time that very day. Too young and inexperienced to get a job doing anything else, it was the fastest way I could think of to get credits. And as luck would have it, I turned out to have a knack for it.
By the following Collection Day there was steel in the bank and food in our bellies once again, but the scars of my failure are still there.
To this day, Mica won’t sleep with his door closed.
With a glance toward his always partially open bedroom door, I snap back to the present.
“That was different,” I say. “When Gran died, I was—”
“You know I don’t just mean her. I’m talking about—”
“Don’t.” I cut Mica off, clenching my jaw and staring him down. His eyes widen in response. He knows he’s toeing the line, if not stepping over it.
It’s been over a year since Lee died, the last tragic victim of raider violence taken too far. Well, the last one that was publicized, at any rate.
The funny thing is, I was never really all that sad about it. Angry, yes, but not sad. It kind of felt inevitable. After all, raider attacks had been on the rise. Scavs were getting torn up left and right. It was only a matter of time before something happened to someone I knew.
Besides, Lee and I hadn’t even been together that long. We weren’t in love. I didn’t fall asleep thinking of the way his hair stuck up in the back, like he had perpetually just rolled out of bed. I didn’t dream of how he kissed me—softly, like he was always just a little shy.
Of course, after he died, I couldn’t stop thinking about those things.
I had no idea if he was The One. In all probability, he wouldn’t have been. But it’s the not-knowing that kills me. The regret that fills all of the space he’ll never occupy again.
Lee was one more person snatched from my life before we even got our chance. Where Gran’s death had paralyzed me with fear and sadness, with Lee’s it was all anger. Enough rage to keep me holed up in my room for a solid week.
At least Mica was better prepared that time.
My nostrils flare as I inhale slowly, attempting to calm myself down. Mica is trying to distract me from the matter at hand, and I can’t let him.
“Don’t you think your future is slightly more important than getting darling Junie to let you stare at her adoringly while she eats lunch?” If I were a better person, my voice would be soft with sympathy, my words comforting. But I’m not. I can’t quite keep the jibe from slipping out.
“You don’t even know her. She’s not like that.”
“Please,” I scoff. “I know her sister. Siblings are never really that different from each other.”
“Well let’s hope for my sake that’s not true,” he says, venom on his tongue. “This town doesn’t need another pariah to shun.”
Ouch. I know he doesn’t really mean it; he’s a pissed-off teenager and I’m insulting the girl he likes. But it still stings. I do my best to shrug off his insult and return my attention to my plate.
“Ugh.” Mica shudders, shoveling the last forkful into his mouth and pushing his plate away. It may taste like dirt, but it’s not disgusting enough for a boy in the middle of a growth spurt to pass up. He’s barely started growing and he’s already almost eclipsed all five-foot-eight of me.
“Put your dishes in the sink, please,” I remind him gently.
With a derisive look, Mica picks up his plate and cup, walks over to the sink, and places them squarely on the counter next to it before storming off to the living room.
I sigh. He just doesn’t understand. If moochers were all we had to deal with, that would be one thing. Unfortunately, there are far more dangerous threats out there. For one, there’s no way the Traders aren’t also aware of our recent stroke of literal good fortune.
It’s been a few months since the last credit theft, which makes it feel like it’s only a matter of time until the next one. There are only two ways to obtain someone else’s steel: it is either gifted or it is taken, and the only way to take someone’s credits around here is to . . .
The thought makes me run cold. It feels like targets have been painted on our backs now that we’ve become the richest orphans to grace the West Quadrant. If Mica didn’t have school, I doubt I’d want either of us to leave the apartment again.
I laugh humorlessly under my breath, contemplating how this time, it feels like I’m shutting us both in rather than shutting him out.
Some improvement, I think to myself as the wind whistles outside.
FIVE
I wake in the middle of the night to the sound of nothing. The rain, after three days of unceasing pounding, has finally stopped. A couple more hours and the ground will be dry enough to walk on without eating through the soles of my shoes.
The silence is disconcerting, though, and I know I won’t be able to fall back asleep. As I wipe the sleep from my eyes and roll over onto my back, my mind starts racing with the same unanswered questions.
What did I find? Why won’t any officials speak to me? And what the hell do I do with all this steel now that we have it?
In my solitude, I am forced to acknowledge the idea that maybe I have been using Mica, mooching neighbors, and fear of the Black Traders as excuses not to take action.
What is wrong with me? I squeeze my eyes shut for several heartbeats before reopening them. Here I am, again. Avoiding instead of confronting, again. Ignoring instead of planning. Again.
But receiving a large sum of money, no matter how suspicious, is nothing like inheriting the sudden responsibility of caring for your kid brother on your own, right? So what am I afraid of? Aren’t I supposed to be both older and wiser than I was at fifteen?
Mica is right. There’s no use sitting on this fortune. I need to start considering how we’re going to spend it. And I need to be smart about it too.
Mica will have all the supplies he’ll ever need for school. We can even start shopping in the North Quadrant instead of bargaining over every pair of socks purchased from the Marketplace. Maybe we can even afford a transport of some kind. Four-wheelers are still too expensive, of course, but maybe a scooter or a refurbished minicycle . . .
I force myself to take a breath. Food, supplies, new clothes, and a transport vehicle? I’m already getting ahead of myself. Six thousand credits may seem like an insane amount now but spread between Mica and me? It won’t last forever. Steel only lasts as long as you can go without spending it. What happens when we start to run out? And am I supposed to just sit around and do nothing until then?
My relationship with the other scavs has always been tenuous at best. I can only imagine the endless stream of remarks I’ll have to endure if I try to return to the fields:
“Spent your fortune already, have you?”
“What, you need more steel to spruce up your wardrobe?”
“Here she is, fellas, ready to show us up again.”
“You just can’t leave any for the rest of us, can you?”
No, the other scavs definitely won’t tolerate me edging in on their own future payouts after this, and I don’t blame them. If I was on the other side of this kind of thing . . . I get it.
Unfortunately, a job in town is pretty much out of the question for me too; I have neither the skill set nor the desire to work down at the docks or in the recycling center. And somehow I suspect that my sunny disposition is not quite what they’re looking for in a shopkeeper.
I flip my pillow to the cool side and press my face into it, counting my shallow breaths. Had you asked me a week ago, I would have told you that something like this would be a blessing. I never considered how complicated it could be.
I start to recall how normal the events of That Day felt, scavenging out in the Dead Woods, my friendly conversation with Mal. I am recounting my terse chat with Emery when, suddenly, I remember why I recognized the set of his shoulders, the shade of his hair. It’s from watching him walk in and out of my classroom, back when he came to speak at school about his scholarship. Emery Garren: the first person in fifty years from Genesis X-16 who would be attending school in the sky.
Technically, the universities up top are open to anyone, citizens of the groundworld and skycities alike. At least that’s what the commercials say. Of course, the kids up there don’t have acid rain that prevents regular school attendance, and their teachers actually like being assigned to teach them.
Here in Sixteen, kids with test scores high enough and wallets deep enough to qualify for entrance are pretty much nonexistent. We don’t have access to the technology or the resources that the skydwellers have, so achieving those scores takes a particular kind of brilliance. And even when kids do make the grade, the cost is what really keeps us out.
Emery was a special case because he managed to land himself one of the exclusive Skyline Scholarships reserved for terrestrials who score highly on their tertiary examinations. Most years, nobody from Sixteen even bothers applying. Our chances are already low and the disappointment just isn’t worth the effort. Most years, no scholarships are awarded at all.
So, why is Emery back here doing scavenging work? I think briefly, though my curiosity is soon eclipsed by one glowing thought: Mica. He’s already passed his secondary examinations, an achievement most kids don’t hit until they’re much older. Under the right circumstances, and with the right resources, my brilliant little brother might actually have the smarts to make it up top.
Our circumstances have never been right, though. Not until now.
I can see it.
I can see Mica shutting the apartment door behind him, bags slung over his shoulders, the two of us beginning the long trek toward the Skyline Transfer together. I see him, sitting at a tiny table in a tiny room with real, sky-grown food on his plate—the kind of stuff we’ve only ever seen on TV: colorful fruits and vegetables that have actual names instead of coded numbers stamped onto their labels.
It would be the chance for a real life for Mica. A life in which his potential wouldn’t be wasted as a scav or recycling plant laborer down here. One where he’d have the education to become more than some self-important skydweller’s personal servant once he got up top.
He’s smart enough, no question, but more importantly, he deserves that chance. He deserves all of it. And with the right education, the ability to meet the right people, the right opportunities . . . He might even be able to become someone who matters. Someone who could change things.
My heart swells but I can only let my imagination run away for so long before I shake myself back to reality. How much steel am I honestly talking about here? Skyline Transfer tickets must cost hundreds and hundreds of credits, and who knows how much he would need once he got up there.
I suddenly realize I might have already figured out why Emery is back.
Even if Mica were able to obtain a scholarship, logic tells me that what it takes to live up there is a hell of a lot more than what it takes to survive down here. The voice in the back of my mind returns, alerting me to the idea that even if my payout was indeed some sort of computer-generated glitch, they might not care enough to fix it. The thought that this much steel really might be mere chump change to the Tribunal puts a sour taste in my mouth.
No, if I want even a chance of making this happen for Mica, I know I’ll need more. We need more.
I glance at the window, imagining I can see the Dead Woods through the foggy panes. What if there’s more out there? I’m not foolish enough to hope that I’d find the exact same thing, another machine, another six thousand credits. But I was so excited about my find that I didn’t even bother digging around the spot where I found it. What if that little machine wasn’t the only valuable thing there? What if—
I push back against that little voice in my mind, but I can’t help the additional thought from slipping through: What if finding whatever else is out there means I could go with him?
I bolt upright. The other scavs will be riotous if they find out that I’ve broken the unwritten rule and tried to collect less than a week after a huge payout. It’s as bad as stealing in these parts. But to be honest, I think they’ll riot if they see me scav ever again after a payout this large anyway. If I sneak out and get back without anyone seeing me, I can sit on my findings until the next Collection Day rolls around, cash in, and we can get out.
I contemplate waiting a while to give the hysteria time to die down a bit. Hardly anyone ever scavenges in the Dead Woods, so there’s a fair chance that anything that’s still out there will stay undiscovered, untouched. But I can’t count on that.
Has Mal already pieced together that I had not, in fact, come from the Southern Plains that day, as I said? What about one of our eavesdroppers? No—if there’s anything else out there like my machine, I need to go now, before anyone else goes looking.
I whip myself out of bed. Tying my hair back in a tight ponytail, I shimmy into an old pair of dark cargos and zip my jacket over a threadbare t-shirt. It’s a risk to venture out so soon after the rain, so I want to make sure my skin is well covered. I pull a pair of gloves out of a drawer and shove them into my pocket.
I tiptoe out of my bedroom and dart over to the kitchen table with my boots gripped tightly in one hand. A glance in the direction of Mica’s room reveals his door still ajar in its standard position. The thought that he still won’t close it, as mad as he is at me, simultaneously warms and wrenches my heart.
I reach over to unhook my bag from its usual resting place but pause before removing it. The electric blue sack, while great for avoiding being run over in the dark, is definitely unfit for secret excursions. I look around for an alternative and, through his half-open door, I notice Mica’s worn black backpack hanging from the back of his desk chair.
I creep in, tossing a furtive glance at his snoring form: hair sticking up on one side, a growing drool spot on his pillow. I quietly pull out the contents of his bag: two textbooks, a notebook, some pens, and a handful of comic books. I smile as I peek at the cover of one of the comics—a giant, floating alien waving its tentacles as it descends on a green planet—before stalking back out of the room.
As I leave, I toss a look at his closet, where his old silver backpack still hangs from a hook on the wall. Being able to replace that dingy thing was a proud moment for me, the happy result of the last time I found plastic during a scav run and ended up with a larger-than-expected credit haul. Mica was so palpably delighted to receive the new bag, it was almost painful.
I chew my lip, feeling the tiniest tinge of guilt for borrowing it, but shake off the thought. He can manage for one day. And if I’m quick, I’ll be back before Mica wakes up and notices anyway.
I take a canteen of water out of the fridge and toss it into the bag, along with a small flashlight. With one strap slung over my shoulder and my boots still in my hand, I steal out the front door and close it behind me as gently as possible.
I quietly tiptoe down the stairs. The air outside is brisk and still. There is no movement on the street. I quickly bend over to put on my shoes, sheltered under the apartment building’s awning, and inspect the area around me. Most of the ground seems dry enough to walk on, though I can still see a few steaming puddles that have collected where the gravel is uneven. Easy enough to avoid. I take a deep breath and silently hopscotch across the road in the moonlight.
The route to the southern wall takes three times longer than usual. In addition to having to navigate around the small lingering pools of acid rain, I find myself looking behind me with every other step. All it would take is one nosy insomniac to spot me and figure out what it is I’m trying to do.
Thankfully, by the time I finally reach the wall, I’m confident I haven’t been followed. I pull the gloves out of my pocket and put them on to protect myself against any residual water that might have pooled in the wall’s cracks, then begin to climb. As I scramble up, the moonlight casts an eerie glow on the black brick, making me feel uncomfortably visible.
My anxiety is high as I reach the top, and I climb down the other side without checking the ground below. My boot lands in a shallow puddle of rainwater, splashing up a cascade of droplets that land on the arms of my jacket with a sizzle.
I bite the inside of my lip to keep from crying out. Mentally cursing myself for not looking at where I was landing, I leap out of the puddle and instinctively wipe down my arms with my gloved hands. Drawing a deep breath, I survey the damage. Fortunately, the thick soles of my new boots seem virtually unscathed, and there are only a few light scorch marks on the sleeves of my jacket. My gloves, on the other hand, are completely shredded.
“Well, those were a good investment,” I mutter under my breath, peeling off what remains of the gloves and inspecting the pink skin on my palms. My hands feel a little raw, but they don’t actively hurt. It appears the still-smoking material of the gloves absorbed most of the damage from climbing.
