Текст книги "The Earth Dwellers"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Chapter Seventeen

Siena

So easy. Almost too easy. The Glassies didn’t question it, didn’t stand ’round scratching their chins and saying, “I wonder if this is some sorta trick.” They just grabbed Adele and slung her into their fire chariot and took her inside. So easy.

Are we the fools?

“She’s one of THEM!” Skye hisses, stabbing her finger in the dark toward the now-closed door.

“She was acting,” Wilde says, but her voice is much less convincing’n usual.

“Ha! See what’d happen if I tried to act. They’d shoot me on the spot,” Skye says, stabbing another finger at the Glass City.

Yeah, but… “You don’t look like ’em,” I say. “She does.”

“Exactly!” Skye says, much too loudly, as if I’ve made her point. “If someone looks like ’em, talks like ’em, rides in fire chariots like ’em, she must be one of ’em.”

Her logic makes sense, but that don’t mean it’s true. “So…what? She was spying on us the whole time?” I say. “She’s gonna go tell ’em ’bout the Unity Alliance, ’bout us hiding over ’ere? That’s nothing, Skye. If she was gonna spy on us, she woulda waited till we took her back to New Wildetown, then tried to escape.” Do I believe what I’m saying, or do I just wanna believe it?

“Then where’s Tristan?” Skye says, her eyebrows raised, as if that was the winning argument. Where is Tristan? I wonder, looking ’round.

“I’m right here,” a voice says from behind us, making us all jump a little.

“You baggard,” Skye says, her finger swinging ’round to aim at him now. I’m glad she doesn’t have her longblade with her or we’d be constantly ducking to keep our heads on our shoulders.

“I’m the baggard?” Tristan says hotly, staring Skye down. “You’re the ones who made her go in there alone. They might’ve discovered her already, killed her already.”

He stomps away, back inside the hideaway. “Don’t prove anythin’,” Skye mutters.

But it does and she knows it. He came back. And if they were spies he wouldn’t’ve.

~~~

More’n more fire chariots return to the Glass City during the night. Eventually I lose count and my excitement dies down each time Lara or Hawk come running in saying, “Another one!”

When I finally fall asleep, it’s so heavy the second coming of the Meteor God couldn’t wake me.

It’s my nose that pulls me back to life. I awake to the aroma of spiced ’zard. Ugh. Same old, same old.

But my stomach growls anyway, ’cause sometimes it doesn’t give two blazes ’bout what I put in it, so long as I put something in there.

I sit up, rubbing my eyes. Skye and Hawk are out, lying ’gainst the cave wall at opposite ends. Lara’s nowhere to be seen, so she’s probably camouflaged up top, watching for more chariots. Wilde and Tristan sit ’cross from each other, heads bowed, having a conversation so low I can only catch snatches of it.

“…has to be a reason they’d…” That’s Wilde.

“…found your…” Tristan’s response.

“…be ready.” Wilde again.

I flinch when Wilde’s head suddenly snaps in my direction, like she realizes I’ve been watching ’em, listening.

“Uh, is it morning?” I say. There’s plenty of light coming through the hole in the roof, so it’s probably not the smartest question.

“Yes,” Wilde says. “Today’s the day we go back to New Wildetown.”

“What ’bout Adele?” I ask.

“Only the sun goddess can protect her now.”

“She’ll do her part—now we need to do ours,” Tristan adds.

“The fight on the outside,” I say.

“Searin’ right,” Skye says, rolling over. “’Em baggards won’t know what hit ’em.”

Is she right, or is it just Skye being Skye? Confident, sure of herself, tough as a tugskull. Yeah, we beat the Glassies the last time they came for us, but we surprised ’em. We even surprised ourselves. I mean, the Heaters didn’t expect the Wilde Ones to show up, and we sure as scorch didn’t expect Feve and the Marked to crash the party. We got the best of our pale-faced neighbors, but the next time they’ll come in harder, with more soldiers, with more weapons…

Will we survive? Do we have any chance? With Adele on the inside, maybe, but only half a chance. With the Icers fighting with us under the Unity Alliance, maybe a whole chance. I gotta believe; it’s the only way I can stay sane when Circ’s not ’round.

I blink away my thoughts when Lara comes rushing in, her eyes bigger’n a Killer’s gaping jaw. “Something’s happening,” she says.

We follow her out of the opening, creep to the top, slither under the rock-colored skin. Even Hawk wakes up and follows us up without asking any stupid questions.

Sure enough, as Lara said, something’s happening. But that’s a major understatement, ’cause it ain’t just something, it’s a BIG something. Dozens of fire chariots are setting just outside the Glass City, not moving, just waiting. Half of ’em are full of Glassy soldiers, all wearing masks like the one Tristan’s wearing, all wearing uniforms and balancing black fire sticks on their knees. The rest of the soldiers are piling into the remaining empty fire chariots.

I duck my head even lower. If one of ’em spots us…

But no, our cave is pretty far off. Unless they ride right at us, we’ll be fine.

Skye curses under her breath. “They musta found us,” she says, and I know she don’t mean us us. She means New Wildetown. She means all of us. The mothers, the fathers, the children. Circ. Feve. Jade, our younger sister. Veeva. Everyone I care ’bout. My world.

“We gotta get back. We gotta get back now,” I say, and I feel my heart racing and a creep of chill running through my veins, almost like I’m back in ice country.

I’m already pulling away, ready to grab our stuff and go, charge ’cross the desert, attempt to outrun the fire chariots, even when I know it’s impossible. But Wilde stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Wait,” she says. “Look.”

I don’t wanna—I wanna run, run, run!—but I hafta look, ’cause when Wilde says something you just do it. I snap my gaze back to the Glass City and see what Wilde’s talking ’bout.

The first of the chariots is leaving, spitting black smoke out the back and growling. A cloud of dust plumes in its wake, but the second chariot just drives right through it, following behind. The third, the fourth, and then all the rest do the same. A long line of fire chariots, like a disgustingly long snake roping its way through the desert. We’re too late. They’re too fast and we’re too late.

But wait, look, I think, my thoughts echoing Wilde’s simple command from only a moment ago.

The chariots ain’t heading west, toward New Wildetown, in the direction most of ’em arrived from during the night. No. They’re heading north.

And there’s only one thing that’s north.

Ice country.

Chapter Eighteen

Dazz

There’s no easy way down the mountain. Not for the entire village anyway. Why would there be? No one ever goes down the mountain; they have no reason to. Back in the days when Buff and I worked for King Goff—may he rot in Chill—and we went to collect trade items from the Heaters at the border, we used to simply strap our sliders on our feet and zip our way down the snowy slopes. This venture south is quite a different experience.

The wooden cart handle is digging into my shoulder. Next to me Buff is mumbling obscenities as he gets similar treatment from his handle. He’s even stopped mocking me and calling me a “sissy-eyed doe-lover” or whatever his usual insults are. Whose idea was the cart anyway?

With each tree root, stone, or bump in the ground, the handles bob up and down, slamming into our bodies, sending shockwaves through our bones and muscles. At least the cold’s not a problem, I think. I’m sweating beneath my thick, bearskin coat.

“Freezin’, icin’, no-good son of a Yag herder,” Buff mumbles. “Yow!” he grunts when we hit a particularly large hump in the frozen earth, hidden beneath the ankle-high snow. I grimace, too, switching the handle to the opposite shoulder for about the hundredth time.

“What the chill are we doing out here?” I ask no one in particular, glaring at a Glassy soldier who smirks at me as he passes by.

“The consortium voted and decided to—” Buff starts to say.

“Yah, I get that,” I say, cutting him off. “But why’d they make such an idiotic decision?”

A voice on my right says, “You should watch what you say, talk like that could be misconstrued as treason.”

I don’t need to turn my head to know the voice. Abe.

Gritting my teeth—not in anger, but with exertion—I turn to look at him. Of course, he’s walking easily, loping along beside me, carrying nothing. His bags are strapped to his ogre-like brother, Hightower, who manages them as easily as the mountain manages us.

“It’s not like you voted for this decision,” I say through clenched teeth.

“True,” he says, tapping a dirty fingernail on his yellow, tobacco-stained teeth. “But it’s hard to argue with Glassy soldiers. Hey! Do you want a hand with that cart?”

I know he doesn’t mean his own hands. “It’s our responsibility,” I say.

“C’mon, Dazzy, don’t be such a spoiler. It’s not like I’m selling my brother into slavery. He likes helping, don’t you, Tower?”

Hightower grunts something that sounds enough like a yes for Abe’s purposes. “See? Take a load off. You, too, Boof.”

“It’s Buff,” Buff says, but he stops at the same time as I do, lowering to a crouch to set the cart on its front stopper. The temptation is too strong.

“Okay,” I say, “but we’ll take it back when he gets tired.”

“What’s going on down there?” a voice says from the cart bed. A face appears, hanging over the front. Darcy. “Why have we stopped?” She spots Hightower and shrinks back, ducking behind a barrel.

I move aside, massaging my neck, rolling my shoulders, feeling like I might if I’d gone sliding into a tree. Buff looks equally battered as he stumbles over to me.

“Ain’t that better?” Abe says.

I can’t say no, so I don’t say anything.

Hightower throws Abe’s and his bags onto the cart, drawing a squeal from the kids in the back, and then positions himself between the two handles. He takes a moment to scratch his arse and crack his knuckles before stooping to lift the cart, letting out a minor grunt. And then we’re moving, Hightower looking as calm and serene as if he’s carrying no more than a small child on his back.

“Now we can talk,” Abe says.

“About what?” I say, falling in beside him.

He lights up a cigarette.

“When did you start smoking?” Buff asks.

Abe laughs. “From when I could afford to buy them,” he says. “When Dazzy here took down the king and made me a very rich man.”

“None of us are rich anymore,” I mutter.

“This ain’t good,” Abe says, his mouth hanging open, displaying his yellow-black teeth like trophies.

I’m surprised that he says it. Abe likes hiding things, pretending everything’s alright when it’s clearly not. For him to say something like that, he must think our situation’s pretty bad indeed.

“What the freeze are they going to do to us?” I hiss.

Abe motions for me to keep my voice down, which I thought I was doing already. “I don’t know, kid, but I’d expect the worst.” The worst? Like King Goff worst, stealing our children—my sister, Buff’s siblings—and selling them as slaves? Or like Admiral Jones worst, using the children themselves as slaves, beating them with whips and otherwise making their lives the definition of misery? Or does he mean…

“What are you saying?” I ask.

“Be alert,” he says. “Wait for the right time to turn the tables on the bastards.” He fingers the knife hanging from his belt. “One way or another, blood will be spilt before the day is done.”

~~~

Hightower pulls the cart the entire way to fire country, and I don’t think he even breaks a sweat. At the bottom, Abe insists Buff and I take over again. Not because Hightower needs a break, but because he wants his brother to “be ready.” Whatever that means. No matter what I ask him, he’s being all cryptic with me, talking about “chances” and “lost opportunities” and “winning the day.”

Fire country is boiling hot, as if the sun and the sand are in league together, creating the perfect conditions to roast humans alive. Almost immediately, the clothes start coming off. Coats and blankets, boots and socks. Some Icers are even using knives to cut their pants and shirts shorter. Soon we’ll be dressed like Heaters.

Most of the Icers have never felt this kind of heat, like they’re sitting in a fire. No doubt it’ll take a lot of getting used to.

Buff and I trudge along, pulling the cart across the hard, cracked earth, avoiding running smack into pricklers, which have drawn plenty of attention from the other Icers, having never seen such strange plants, all green and spiky and presenting themselves in countless shapes and varieties. I almost wish I was sitting back there with my mother and Jolie, just to see their expressions. There’s a whole, wide world out there just waiting to be explored.

But not this way. Not by being forced.

The safety of the trees and the mountain fade away behind us.

After a while, the soldiers stop us, order us to rest and drink, to ready ourselves for the final stage across the desert. They speak with clipped sentences, formal and sharp. Commands, not suggestions. They are our masters, not our allies. I even notice that the curly mustache representative from the Blue District isn’t looking so confident in his decision. His face is red, his clothes are streaked with dust, and he has a crying baby in his arms. Should we call a re-vote? I’m pretty sure the Glassy soldiers won’t go for that. The alliance has been made.

Abe and Hightower stroll away from us while we’re stopped, pointing at a bright, purple flower on a prickler, gesturing and smiling animatedly at a mouse-like creature that pops out of a hole, sniffs around, and then dives back out of the sun. What are they up to?

Be alert, he’d said. I’m trying my best, but Jolie’s tugging on my arm, pointing at everything in sight, saying, “Do you see it? Do you?”

And I’m saying, “Yah, yah, Joles,” even as I’m watching one of the other reps from the Black District march over to one of the soldiers, waving his arms wildly, screaming at him. I can’t make out his words but I can tell they’re laced with obscenities and demands. When the soldier just ignores him, gazing off into the desert like the man doesn’t exist, he gets all up in his face, sort of bumping him with his chest. Still the soldier ignores him, but I see the Glassy’s fingers tightening on his weapon.

A lot of the other Icers are noticing the commotion now too, gawking and pointing. Murmurs ripple through the crowd like a water country wave, picking up speed and quickly alerting the other Glassy soldiers to the plight of their comrade. They’ve got us surrounded, but now they’re looking at each other, unsure of themselves.

One of them starts moving around the circle in the direction of the soldier being harassed, but another soldier yells at him to “Hold position!”

Be alert. I scan my surroundings, looking in all the places the soldiers aren’t. Abe’s up to something—that’s the only thing I’m sure of. Then I see him.

Outside of the ring of soldiers. Not Hightower, just Abe. Surprisingly, Hightower is nowhere to be found. Although he stands a foot above everyone else from ice country, Abe’s brother is missing, which means he must be crouching or sitting or hiding somewhere.

Abe’s on the move, staying low to the ground, moving silently behind one of the soldiers, who’s completely oblivious.

A distraction. That’s all the Black District rep is. He’s pushing the soldier now, and the soldier is finally paying him some attention, pushing back and shouting a warning at him. Now raising his weapon, pointing it at the guy, who finally backs off, his hands in the air…

Abe grabs the other soldier from behind, around the neck, twisting his head viciously to the side. The Glassy drops and Abe bends down to pick up his weapon.

No one notices except me, as the Icers and Glassy soldiers are equally distracted by the continuing scene with the man and the soldier. Now the man’s moving forward again, his arms out, as if trying to reason with the soldier. He points to the sky, at the sun, as if trying to say that the heat’s making everyone a little crazy, a little quick-tempered.

My eyes flick back to Abe, who’s striding around the arc of the human circle that is the entire population of ice country, all three thousand of us. He doesn’t run, just walks calmly, confidently, deadly.

A large form draws my attention on the other side of the circle. Hightower, having risen up from wherever he was crouching, is walking in the opposite direction, closing in on another soldier, who’s looking the other direction, toward his comrade who’s dealing with the irate villager.

And then, and then…

–Tower’s arm is raised, his clenched fist like a club, high above his head, and he

–drops it like a falling tree, right onto the crown of the soldier’s head.

The soldier crumples without so much as grunting.

I whip my head back to the other side, where Abe is swinging the fire stick like an axe at a tree, cracking it off the next soldier’s skull.

Finally, someone besides me notices. A scream, loud and shrill, pierces the murmurs of the crowd. Heads turn and feet scramble as everyone tries to figure out what’s happening. Who screamed and why? The remaining soldiers are doing the same, turning, realization flashing across their faces, because three of the other soldiers are missing, out of sight below the height of the people.

And they’re shouting, too, trying to make their voices carry over the rumbles of the village, growing louder and louder and—

–there’s a CRACK! sharp and like thunder, and right away, even though I’ve never heard it before, I know what it is. The sound of a fire stick being used. One of the soldiers has hurt an Icer, maybe even killed them.

Everyone’s screaming and running now, leaving everything—their carts and packs and everything—behind as they try to get away. CRACK! CRACK! CRACKCRACKCRACK!

The noises come fast and furious and provide the perfect, gruesome accompaniment for the fearful screams of the crowd.

“Dazz!” Jolie yells, clutching my leg. I grab her and throw her up onto the cart, where Buff is already corralling any of his brothers and sisters who clambered off when we stopped. They’ll be safe from the stampede up there.

People are charging around us, trying to get away, running back toward ice country, and I’m craning my neck to see what’s happening, who’s dying, where Abe and Hightower are.

The mob parts and there he is: Abe. He’s got the stolen fire stick raised and there’s a soldier lying flat on her back before him, her own weapon discarded to the side, her hands held out in front of her. Abe goes right on up to her, shoves the tip of the fire stick to her head, and

CRACK!

I see a spray of crimson liquid from her head and she slumps, unmoving. Dead. Abe killed her with the Glassy weapon. He knows how to use it. Somehow, he knows.

As the villagers continue to rush past, between them I see the bodies behind Abe. Two more soldiers. As lifeless as sacks of rocks. The cracks I heard weren’t from the Glassy soldiers—or at least not all from the soldiers. They were from Abe’s stolen fire stick, as he killed them.

Abe marches forward, his weapon raised once more. I follow his aim. There’s one soldier left, the original one, the distraction. The Black District rep is lying motionless in the dust in front of him. The Glassy’s pointing his weapon, but not at Abe, at Hightower, who’s stomping toward him, looking every bit like the giant that he is. Behind him are a few more fallen soldiers.

CRACK!

The soldier shoots and Tower’s shoulder twitches back slightly, like he’s been punched, but he keeps on coming, grabbing the Glassy’s fire stick, yanking it out of his hands, and bashing him over the head with it.

It’s over.

No, not yet. Abe approaches his brother, gently nudges him aside, points his stick at the head of the final soldier.

CRACK!

Now it’s over.

Chapter Nineteen

Adele

The truck lurches forward once more, but I don’t open my eyes. Can’t open my eyes because it’s too soon and I’m afraid they’ll betray me, show the lie.

The metal truck bed rumbles beneath me, and it’s a welcome distraction from my pounding head and throbbing arm. Tristan didn’t hold back, not one bit, for which I’m glad. The tenacity of his attacks might be the very thing that saves me.

I feel the truck turn and a wave of nausea fills my throat, either because of Tristan’s blow to the head or the vehicle’s movement—or perhaps a combination of the two. Even as I swallow it down, I wonder whether I should succumb to the urge, whether lifting my mask and vomiting on the soldiers’ feet will add further credibility to my story.

I hold it in. Is it my first mistake?

I don’t have time to wonder as the truck shudders to a stop and I feel the scramble of the soldiers as they jump out. “What the hell happened?” a gruff male voice barks.

“She’s not one of ours,” a female voice answers, stopping my heart. It’s over already. How did they know? “Must be part of another platoon.” My heart continues beating, albeit twice as fast as normal. I force myself to breathe evenly. She just meant I’m not part of her squad.

“Scan her,” the gruff voice orders. My jaw clenches. I’ve got no chip.

“Shouldn’t we get her to medical first? She’s hurt pretty badly, looks like a blow to the head. They’ll scan her there.”

There’s silence for a couple of seconds. “Okay, move her.” My jaw unclenches and I focus on keeping my eyes closed, my body relaxed and rubbery.

Someone pries off my mask. Hands pull me from either side, sliding me along the truck bed and onto something hard. I’m tempted to tighten my arms to my sides, but instead I let them flop down, hanging lifeless over the edge of the backboard. Someone lifts them up and crosses them over my chest. “Soldier, accompany me with her to medical,” the female voice orders.

“Yes, ma’am!”

And then I’m floating, drifting through space, being spirited away. What’s my next move? They don’t know I don’t have a chip—that it’s been cut out of me by the “enemy”. They don’t suspect a damn thing yet. But when I get to medical things will cascade pretty fast. When there’s nothing to scan, they’ll have plenty of questions for me, and I can’t fake unconsciousness forever. Nor is there time to. The Tri-Tribes and Tristan are counting on me to make a difference as soon as possible, maybe immediately.

I need a new identity. A chip.

I risk opening my eyes, just slits, seeing only darkness through my eyelashes. Close them again.

There’s a slight jolt and a quiver as I feel my legs angling higher than my head. We’re going up a ramp or steps. My legs drop back to level, and the heavy black behind my eyelids gives way to a dull yellow glow. Lights. I sneak another peek and see fluorescent lights above me, stark white walls on both sides, and the green-brown back of a dark-haired soldier in front of me. The woman who temporarily saved me, her hair falling halfway down her spine.

Is she the one who has to die so I can live?

I grit my teeth and silently promise myself I’ll do whatever I have to do to stop Lecter. After all, could any of his followers really be innocent? Surely many of the citizens are, but the soldiers?

But the first thing I have to do is ditch my escort. We turn a corner, head down another bright hallway, lined with doors on either side. They have signs on them. X-Rays, Exam Room C, Administration, Maintenance, Electrical Room, Exam Room D, etc. It’s the middle of the night and this place is empty, save for us, the hollow footsteps of the soldiers at my front and back echoing away. Do I make my move?

I wait, like a spider, watching my web for the perfect moment to pounce on my prey.

We pass through a doorway, into a large room, sparkling clean and smelling sterile with antiseptic. “Where is everyone?” the male soldier behind me says.

“At night they’re on call, and since there hasn’t been much action lately…” the senior officer says. “We’ll get her to a bed and then call someone.”

No one’s here. Not a single person except us. This might be my only shot. The doctor will have questions. Hard questions. I have to act now. Now. NOW!

I snap my eyes open and kick my legs back, clamping them to the head of the soldier behind me. Then I whip my ankles forward, pulling him over my head and onto the gurney with me. He cries out as our combined body weight brings the board down on top of the woman soldier, who stumbles.

His head’s in my lap, and I don’t waste any time. Two hard punches to the head and his tongue lolls out, his eyes rolling back in his skull.

The woman scrambles, tries to roll, to kick and fight her way out from underneath us, where her legs are pinned. I easily twist away first, push to my feet, and shake my whirling head to try to center myself. Then I kick her solidly in the face and she stops struggling.

My mind is cycling through my options. If I don’t kill them, it could really come back to bite me. But what if they’re like the sun dwellers, mindless drones operating under a system where the only thing they know is their little world, following orders without question. Do they deserve to die the same way that President Nailin did? The way Lecter does?

Time’s running away through my fingers as I comb a hand through my hair. Think, think, think. I need a chip. Should I take hers? Will she be missed right away? If I don’t kill them, will someone find them?

First, I take the backboard and lay it in a stack against the wall, trying to buy time, my mind racing.

I withdraw my knife, approach the woman. Hold it close to her neck. Take a deep breath. Lower it to her right arm, where Tristan sliced me open. Withdraw the blade.

No. She’s the leader of her platoon. People will know who she is. Her soldiers. Her superiors. I’ll be discovered too soon.

I should probably kill them, and I may be making my second mistake, like when I chose not to throw up in the truck, but I can’t. Not with them lying here, defenseless, when all they were trying to do was get me medical attention. I scan the room, locate a locker with a large cross on it. Supplies. Medical supplies. I rush over and thrust it open, quickly reading the labels. I recognize some of them. For pain. For fevers. Ah! Anesthesia. Needles with plungers, full of the stuff. Perfect.

I don’t know where to inject the fluid, so I roll up their sleeves and pick out the largest vein I can find in each of their arms, jam the needles into them, and press down hard on the plungers. Then, for good measure, I give them each a second dose. I hope it won’t kill them, but I need them out as long as possible—it’s a risk I have to take.

Next I rip the sheets off one of the beds and use my knife to methodically cut it into strips. Bind their hands and feet, tie them together. Gag their mouths. Remove their weapons: guns and knives and grenades.

Now where to stash them? There are plenty of closets around, but surely those are used on an almost daily basis. Not a good spot. The other rooms in the hall we came from? Probably used regularly, too, except for maybe…Electrical Room. Unless there’s a problem with the electricity, no one would go in there.

Feet first, I drag the guy to the doorway, peek to my right and then to my left, up and down the hall. Quiet. Empty. I slide him out, across the bare, white tile. There! Electrical Room. I jiggle the handle but it doesn’t open, feels locked. In frustration, I twist it again and shove with my shoulder.

It gives way and I barge through into darkness. Except for…a green, blinking light with shining letters above it: Effective.

We’re in business.

I drag the soldier inside, stop, feel around with my hands. The equipment with the green light has plenty of space behind it. I stuff him back there and return for his superior officer, doing the same with her. When I close the door behind me, I take a deep breath, steady myself against the wall, close my eyes for just a second.

I can do this.

Next step: get a chip. It has to be one from someone who won’t be missed, who won’t be able to rat me out.

I stride off down the hall, as if I belong, stopping only briefly to collect the weapons left behind by the unconscious soldiers.

The medical building is eerie at night, even more so because it’s so brightly lit and yet so empty. Surely there’s illness and accidents in the New City. Surely the residents need medical attention sometimes, even at night. Perhaps this is only for the army, whose actions, according to Wilde, have been confined to searching for the Tri-Tribes. Nothing particularly dangerous. No casualties, no injuries. Thus, an empty army medical ward at night.

I pass through a wide room labeled Eatery. There are long rows of white tables, benches on either side of them, attached with metal piping. I’m partway across when I hear it. Music. Well, sort of. Someone singing, just loud enough for the sound to carry through the unoccupied hallways.

Do I run in the other direction?

It’s a woman’s voice and I need a chip.

I make for the singing, crossing the rest of the cafeteria on tiptoes. Down another passage, the singing getting louder, clearer:

Rest, my darling,

Sleep, my darling,

Dream your cares away,

Do not fuss,

Do not cry,

The night is here to stay.

It’s coming from one of the rooms branching off from the hall I’m now in, but I can’t tell which one, the echoes distorting the direction of the sound.

First room, door closed. Move on.

Next room, open. Peek inside. Empty, except for shelves of supplies. A bucket. A mop. Cleaning liquids.

Third room, also closed. Singing getting louder still:

Travel down roads of gold,

My darling, Charity,

Don’t be scared, for you are bold,

Find your way back to me.

A lullaby. I recognize it. My mother sang it to me when I was little. A moon dweller lullaby. Could this woman be…a moon dweller? Tristan said many moon and star dwellers were tricked into coming above, to be used as the servants of the earth dwellers. To do all the work that the migrant sun dwellers didn’t want to do—that they weren’t used to doing. Cleaning, trash collection and disposal, food preparation…

I peek in the fourth room and she’s there, holding a mop, dabbing it in a water-filled bucket, squeezing it out. Sweeping it back and forth in circles on the floor, until the surface shines under the fluorescent lights. Wearing white linen pants and a white shirt, blond hair spilling down her back. Clearly not a soldier. Her back is to me. A cleaner. A servant. A chip.