Lotus and Thorn (8 page)

“Hello . . . friend.” A man with a greying, neatly-trimmed beard and a bandaged side stepped to the front of the group. He gave a deferential tilt of his head but there was no respect there, and his gravelly voice was cut with bitterness.

He was the man who’d grabbed me in the smoke. His face was narrow and reserved. And there were the same eyes, calm and cunning. A chill went through me.

He was clearly the crewboss; all it took was a tiny nod, and his men—twenty-five or so of them—spread out in a circle around us. They were stone-faced and silent in their movements. Everyone out in Tierra Muerta was a criminal, and it didn’t take long for the desert to teach you its savageness. But this group had a cohesion I’d never seen among the makeshift bands of exiles. It was daunting.

At least Edison had been right about the salvage. The slideboard was piled with circuit boards, wires, and panels from the shuttle. Edison said, “I see you’ve got some good Finds.”

“Yes, the storms certainty uncovered some treasures. But these aren’t for trade,” the crewboss said. His words were relaxed, but careful. And he blinked at us slowly, as if everything about him was deliberate.

I didn’t understand what was going on. What good would this junk be to exiles, if not to trade for food and water?

Edison didn’t let his broad smile falter. “I can give you a handsome Gratitude for them.”

“We don’t need your Gratitude. We grow what we want. Or take it.” His voice was cold, almost amused. He nodded to his crew.

As if they’d been waiting for the signal, three men stepped forward—the ones who’d taken the lead in their formation. One pulled his knife from his belt while the others took Edison’s arms.

Edison glanced at me. I gave the tiniest shake of the head. He could take these three easily, but what about the rest? We weren’t going to win this in an outright fight.

The trick was figuring out what these men wanted. I scanned the impassive, focused faces of the crew looking for clues about how this was going to end. Their steady eyes, their fierce discipline—these were not your ordinary exiles. It was more than just the fact that their beards were trimmed. Or their clothes, though threadbare, were patched and cared for. They had a pride. A sense of purpose about them.

These men were not hungry. Not greedy or lecherous. Even their anger was contained. A jolt of fear shook my core. They didn’t want anything from us. And that was very bad news indeed.

“Now,” the crewboss said, a sneer creeping into his voice, “what are a Curador and his Kisaeng doing wandering about in Tierra Muerta?”

“I’m nobody’s Kisaeng!” I injected emotion into my voice, letting fear stain the edges of my words. I needed to upset the tightly controlled balance of this situation. And I needed to do it while not seeming like a threat.

The crewboss pulled a long, curved knife from his belt and
came closer, looking me over. I held his gaze defiantly, but added the tiniest lip tremble. The man looked old—his long brown face wind-blasted and scarred—but his black eyes were sharp and bright. In truth, he probably wasn’t much past thirty-five. Even back in Pleiades, you were one of the lucky ones if you made it into your forties.

“I believe you.” He ran the point of his knife along my cheekbone and up into my scalp, using it to lift up a clump of my butchered hair. “Clearly you’re one of us . . . forgotten out here while your own people make deals with the devil.”

The thing is, I was sure I’d seen a flash of recognition in his face, just as I recognized him from the other day.

“Well, the boys are always happy to make a new . . . friend.” There was cruelty in his voice, but it didn’t reach his eyes. With an unsettling realization, I understood he was like me—playing a part. Trying to get a response. And as his knife slowly ran down the length of my neck and came to rest between my breasts, he got one.

“Don’t touch her!” Edison
wasn’t
pretending. He strained at the men holding him—anger and frustration spilling out of his suit’s speakers. “The Curadores will come looking for me . . .
and
her. They know how to find us!”

And I remembered that the Curadores were tracking our signal even now.

A smug grin widened the crewboss’s face. Evidently, that was the information he’d been looking for.

“And so they
will
find you . . . a tragic victim of the sandstorm. After all, we can’t let you report back that we’re collecting equipment.” Then the man’s face went deadly serious. “Kill him.”

Edison went wild, struggling to get free. He was huge and powerful, but he couldn’t take on all twenty-five of them. Five closed in on Edison, knives out. Next to me, the crewboss looked on with a grim satisfaction. He thought the fight was over, but I was just getting started.

The heel of my right hand slammed up into his chin—snapping his neck back—while my left hand grabbed his knife. He stumbled away from me and I kicked him in the ribs, right where I’d stabbed him the other day. He moaned and collapsed on the ground.

It only took seconds. And before any of the men could reach me, I had my boot on the crewboss’s sternum—knife at his throat. “Let the Curador go.”

The men around Edison lowered their knives, but they didn’t release him. Even now, the crew stayed calm, if hyperfocused.

“Let him go, or I’ll kill your crewboss.” A trickle of blood ran down my fingers from where I’d grabbed the crewboss’s blade, and I wiped it on my pants.

“Six fingers!” one of the men shouted, pointing at my hands now. “She’s got six fingers.”

I held the knife steady—but the balance around me was changing, a crack finally appearing in the crew’s restraint. A split second before, everyone had been ready to give up. To lay down their knives at the boss’s signal. Now there was a growing restlessness.

Would they want to kill me now too? Would their hatred for my Corruption trump their concern for their leader? Suddenly, one of the younger exiles let go of Edison.

“It’s her . . . she’s alive!” He put his knife away and crossed to me, face breaking into a grin. “Leica! It’s you, isn’t it?”

HEARING MY NAME
from that stranger, that exile, unsettled me. Like I’d suddenly lost my footing. I looked closer at the crew, who’d fragmented into several excited, whispered conversations, studying him. Under all the dirt and scruff, I finally made out a familiar face—a man from Building Nine. Well, not man—boy. Too young even for a proper beard. If I remembered right, he was a year younger than me . . . Lotus’s age. And last time I’d seen him, he’d been part of a mob of kids who liked to torment me. His hair was shaggier now, but I recognized his stubborn chin and rebellious eyes.

Alejo. Yes. That was his name.

“I’m Leica. What’s it to you?” This set off a new wave of whispers and my neck prickled with alarm. My name meant something to them.

“It’s okay.” Alejo came toward me with open palms, showing me he was unarmed. “We’re not your enemy.”

But a few of the exiles were still holding Edison, looking unsure.

Unsure
was dangerous. I adjusted my grip on the knife at their
leader’s throat. “Then why do you still have my friend? If you’re not my enemy, then tell them to let him go.”

Alejo looked to his crewboss. “Jaesun?”

I backed off the knife, just enough to let the crewboss—Jaesun—speak.

“Do what she says,” he ordered.

“Now.” I eased my boot off Jaesun’s chest as they released Edison. “Someone better tell me exactly what’s going on.”

“Alejo thinks you’re one of
us
. Not just an exile, but an
Indigno
.” Jaesun’s eyes glinted as he uttered the Abuelos’ insult—full of challenge. “So . . . are you?”

I made my face and my words hard, crouching in the sand, so Jaesun and I were face-to-face. “Am I what?”

There’s a moment in every fight when you win or lose . . . and it’s rarely a showy punch. It’s usually something too small for the spectators to notice. A clever feint. A tiny hesitation. An opening. Whatever this man’s challenge was—this was the moment.

Jaesun smiled. “One of us.”

“
Michinnom!
I don’t even know who you
are
!” I laid the tip of the knife so it tucked, ever so gently, just under his rib cage. “And you don’t know me or what I’m capable of.”

“I know that you accepted your exile with bravery and honor. That you protected your sisters with your silence,” Jaesun said.

Evidently this is what it meant to have your humiliation take place in front of thousands. And my hackles rose up, my instincts from that day at the Festival kicking in again. “My sisters have nothing to—”

“I know that your crew is gone,” Jaesun interrupted. “And I know that we have more in common than you think.”

“He’s right.” Alejo took a step closer.

I pulled my own knife from my belt—one in each hand now, trying to keep control of the situation. “Back off.”

Alejo put his hands up again. “Jaesun, we’d better take her with us. She needs to
see
to understand.”

I laughed, the noise coming out a little strangled. “What part of my blade gave you the impression I would go anywhere with you?”

“’Cause it’s better than dying out here alone,” Jaesun said. “No supplies. No allies.”

Alone?
I looked to Edison, confused . . . but he was gone. Then I spotted him, already halfway up the dune—heading in the direction of the Exchange.

The shock must have shown on my face. Because Jaesun got to his feet, brushing sand from his beard. “And here was me . . . hoping you two kids were gonna work it out.”

“Should we go after him?” Alejo tried to sound tough, but I could tell he was hoping Jaesun would say no.

I hoped so too. My chest was cold with Edison’s desertion, but I didn’t want him dead.

“He’s not worth it.” I hoped that—if these exiles believed I was one of them—my words would hold the necessary weight. “He wasn’t lying . . . more Curadores are already on their way.”

Jaesun’s eyes were glued to Edison’s receding figure, like he couldn’t stand to let a Curador get away. But eventually, Jaesun turned back to his crew. “Leave him. We need to get back to camp before it gets dark.”

I turned my back on Edison too—I had no choice. I tried to reconcile the Edison who’d raced against the sandstorm. Who’d
told me stories in the flood. Tried to reconcile
that
Edison with the one who was disappearing over the dune and leaving me with these exiles.

It stung. And worse than that, I felt stupid. Had I misunderstood his offer to come live in the Dome with him? But then I thought of Edison standing in the desert of wildflowers, amazed and grinning.
We are the same.

No. I hadn’t imagined it.

But the crew had already returned to formation and were heading off—I didn’t have time to waste trying to parse what Edison had or had not meant. They didn’t bother trying to corral me. Jaesun was right. I was exposed out here. I was almost out of water. Plus, they had the radio . . . and making contact with Earth was still my best and only path home. I might not trust this crew, or even understand who they were, but my choice was already made.

I fell into step behind them. I’d keep my knife close, my eyes open, and see how this next round played out.

• • •

It was another few hours back to their camp. Most of the crew kept their distance, but Alejo stayed close to me. And I stayed close to the salvaged radio—trying to tell what kind of shape it was in. There were other Finds piled on the slideboard alongside it. Old computer components and bits of metal.

“If you’re not going to trade that salvage with the Curadores, why collect it?” I kept my voice even, trying not show it was important to me.

“We’re always on the lookout for intact electronics. In fact, that’s why we were staking out your camp.” And Alejo looked just a little bit ashamed. “We ran across the shuttle a couple days
ago and knew someone had gotten there first. Later, when we found your camp, we were hoping to trade for whatever you guys might’ve salvaged. But then the other crew showed up. And there was all that smoke and you made a run for it and . . .” He paused, as if stuck in that moment. Finally he said, “I swear, we didn’t know your whole crew was dead. We thought it might be some kind of ambush or something.”

It seemed an innocent enough explanation . . . if it was true. Then again, they’d just tried to kill Edison. “Intact. Does that mean those gadgets work?”

Jaesun sidled up next to us, cutting into our conversation. “
Your
crew found the shuttle . . . why don’t you tell us?”

The edge in his voice told me that Jaesun didn’t trust me, despite what he’d said about my
honorable
exile. And the feeling was mutual. Still, Suji had been a good teacher—never lie if it might be found out. Plus, information was the currency of more information. “Well, we
did
hear something on the radio . . .”

“Yeah, we heard too, before we gutted the thing,” Jaesun said, and I knew I’d made the right choice. “Some kind of recording. Figure it’s been broadcasting since the very first outbreak of Red Death.”

So the crew hadn’t tried to respond—or if they did, no one answered. Good. “What are you going to use it for?”

“Anything we can.” Alejo looked to Jaesun and Jaesun nodded his permission. Evidently my honesty had bought me a little credit with the crewboss. It felt like a small victory in a day, a week, of losses. Alejo went on. “We’re not like everyone else out here. We’re exiles by choice. We call ourselves Indignos.”

“Last time I saw you in Pleiades, you were calling
me
that, along with a few other choice names.”

Alejo stopped for a second and the man behind him almost ran into him. Then Alejo remembered where he was and scuttled to take his place in formation again. I matched my pace with his while Jaesun discreetly dropped back, rejoining the rear guard of our procession. Alejo’s mouth kept twisting into different frowns, as if he was struggling to find the right words.

“I think,
I’m sorry
is what you’re looking for,” I said.

“I know.” His messy hair fell over his eyes and he shook it out of the way impatiently. “And I
am
sorry. My dad and little brother had just died and I was
so angry
. I took it out on the wrong people.”

“And now? Who do you think are the right people?”

Alejo looked away and shrugged.

I let it drop. No need to alienate my only supporter. “Exiles by choice. Does that mean you left Pleiades on purpose?”

“Yes, to see if we could create something new . . . without the Curadores.”

When I gave Alejo a blank look, he smiled. “You’ll see when we get to camp.”

After hours of walking east, we crossed the magfly tracks and turned south, the peaks rising up in front of us. The loose sand hardened into cracked mud—scattered with boulders and scrub brush. The crew seemed to relax as we got close to the mountains, their formation looser, their faces less somber. But the nearness of those cliffs made me nervous and I rested a hand on my knife.

As I did, a group of exiles—guards by the look of it—stepped out from behind a patch of boulders. Three men and two women
blocked our path, weapons drawn. But when they saw Jaesun, they nodded respectfully and let out a piercing whistle. From about fifty meters up along the ridge, the whistle was returned.

“You have men up on the mountains?” I gaped. No one went into the mountains. It was the domain of wild dogs and diseased animals.

“We do lots of things other folks don’t consider smart,” Jaesun said by way of answer. “Don’t want any other crews
accidentally
wandering into camp.”

The guards seemed to think this was funny—their sandmasks muffling their laughter. Jaesun asked them, “Any news while I’ve been—”

A dog came bounding around the corner. Mouth open, running hard. I drew my knife, but Jaesun crouched down and flung open his arms.

“Hey, girl! Did you miss me?”

Instead of baring her teeth, the dog flopped down—rolling over for Jaesun to rub her tummy. And more unbelievably, he did. Speaking of doing stupid things.

But the dog didn’t
look
sickly or particularly aggressive even. In fact, she looked ridiculous—tongue drooping out of her mouth—as she jumped up again and inspected the troops. And the previously menacing group of Indignos pulled their sandmasks off and stood at faux attention while the dog sniffed and investigated them. A few of them even cracked a smile.

Though none of the guards were from Building Nine, I recognized all of them from the Festival ring. Life on Gabriel was hard. The people of Pleiades didn’t have much, but our fighters were our soul. The ring was a place where Citizens could
see
we
were still strong. That despite unrelenting penitence, our lives had worth. Good fighters were revered by their buildings—a sign that God smiled on its Citizens—and these men and women standing in front of me were some of the best. Over the years, I’d seen each of them fight—and lose to—my dad. They’d been heroes, symbols of pride for Pleiades, and now incredibly, here they were in the wasteland of Tierra Muerta.

When the dog got to me—ridiculous or not—seventeen years of instinct kicked in. I froze as the dog sniffed every inch of me. Animals brought death. Everyone knew they carried disease, they stole food, and they attacked when you were vulnerable. When the dog jumped up to snuffle at my pack, it was all I could do not to give in to the all-encompassing, head-buzzing panic.

I only started breathing again when the dog dropped down on all fours and trotted over to Jaesun, wagging her tail.

“The pup approves.” Jaesun was holding back a smile, enjoying my discomfort. But his smugness didn’t last long because suddenly pebbles were skittering down the mountainside, gathering at our feet. Dust billowed along the ridgeline above us and, in the wake of a small rockslide, another guard in a sandmask came skidding down the steep slope, charging at me.

Before I could even raise my arms in defense, the guard tackled me. Knocking me to the ground.

“You’re safe!” The guard ripped off the sandmask. Blue dirt smudged every inch of skin and the black hair was short and messy, but the grin was the same. Reaching all the way up to her eyes, making them sparkle.

“Lotus!” I hugged her with all my strength, wishing I could cement myself to her. But there was so much less of her than the
last time I’d seen her. She’d been stretched thin and I could feel her ribs under my hands.

But still. She was here. And it was like finding myself again.

“When I saw you through the binoculars . . . How did you . . . I can’t believe you’re here!” She hugged me again, laughing.

And I was laughing too. The belly-deep, whole-body kind of laugh, which shakes your soul loose. Questions and worries and thoughts spun themselves around, but there was no room for them. There was only room for my sister.

I grinned at her. “I never thought I’d see you again. I
wanted
to believe it, but now I see I never did. Not really.”

Lotus nodded. “Tasch swore somehow that you’d come back in one piece and she was right, as always!”

“Where is she?” I glanced around, as if Tasch might suddenly appear down the mountain too. It was then I noticed that Jaesun’s crew—except for Alejo and the guards—were already heading into the ravine. Lotus was terribly quiet and I pushed her sandmask farther down so I could see her clearly. Her skin was drawn tight over her cheekbones. Her whole face was pinched, except for under her eyes, where it was puffy and bruised-looking. “What happened?”

Raw pain flashed across Lotus’s face and she opened her mouth to speak; then she closed it again and stood up. It was as if she put away the sister I knew—simply took it off, like it was a dress or a shirt—and carefully folded it up and tucked it away inside herself. “A lot’s happened since you left.”

“That much is clear. And I didn’t leave. I was exiled.” I stood up, putting myself in front of her, even though I had to crane my neck to look at her. Not giving her an out. “Where’s Tasch?”

Tasch and Lotus would never intentionally be separated. Surely she was here somewhere. Surely if something had happened I would’ve known. Would’ve woken up in the middle of the night. Surely my heart would’ve stopped, at least for a moment. I scanned the faces of the guards, even though I knew that was the last place Taschen would be. All I found was pity in the eyes of the toughest people in Pleiades.